


Violence and Variations

by orphan_account



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Blind Date, Dominance, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Masturbation, Submission, discussion of previous MSR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After the slow dissolution of her relationship with Mulder, Scully attempts to start over. She moves to Baltimore, gets a quiet job in the Coroner's Office, and begins to fall for a man on a BDSM-community message board.It's a statistical improbability, really, that he turns out to be Walter Skinner.Post-IWTB, probably around 2010/2011ish. Canon-compliant until the revival series.
Relationships: Dana Scully/Walter Skinner
Comments: 29
Kudos: 77





	1. I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You

**Author's Note:**

> This work is finally complete and at over 30k words, far and away the longest thing I've ever written. If you read it as I was publishing it, know that I did go back and edit some things in the first few chapters before posting the last one. Nothing major, things will still make sense, but it all feels a bit cleaner now.
> 
> Someone I admire on here once said "the comments section is the internet's tip jar" or something like that. In other words, comments are appreciated, craved, and adored. Feed me and tell me I'm pretty. I'm just as vain as anyone else.

Maybe she was nervous because she hadn’t gone on a date since the beginning of the Clinton administration. She knew, rationally, that she shouldn’t be nervous. At least that was what she kept telling herself. This was supposed to be a low-stress, casual meet-up with a new friend. Dana Scully was a grown woman and wasn’t going to admit to herself that maybe, just maybe, she actually had feelings for a man whose face she had never seen - a man she met on the _internet._  
  
They had agreed on meeting in D.C. where he lived. Her work at the Coroner’s office allowed her a certain scheduling flexibility that he did not have. She could clock out early on a Friday and no one would particularly mind - thus the onus of travel time fell on her shoulders, which wasn't a big deal to her one way or the other. The drive down from Baltimore wasn’t bad, about an hour. The distance itself gave her a very convenient series of excuses. If she didn’t want to drink, or felt like leaving early, she could always blame her commute back home. In reality, she had no intention of going back that night. She had priced out a hotel room, and knew where she would stay, regardless of how things turned out. But he didn’t need to know that. When meeting up with a man from a BDSM community message board, it is prudent to take some reasonable precautions.

The bar he chose was surprisingly pleasant, she had to admit. A quiet neighborhood place - dimly lit, small, but not a dive. Somewhere that he surely knew the bartender by name, and they all knew him. She had worried that it would be some sort of gaudy kink bar where everyone was wearing leather and chains. It seemed a far away, silly thought now. Walt just wasn’t like that. 

_Fuck._ She was so fucking _nervous._

They were meeting only as friends - nothing more had been promised by either party. This didn’t stop her from agonizing in front of her mirror before leaving. Neither had any idea what the other looked like. They had both disclosed that they had previously worked for the government, not unusual in the D.C. area, and that they would rather not share photographs of themselves in connotation with such an incriminating website. Reasonable.  
  
She knew that she had once been eye-catching. But she wasn’t as young as she used to be. Years of chasing mistruths and being shot at will add some lines to your face. What if she was older than he thought she’d be? She wasn’t part of “the scene.” What if those women were more attractive? After what felt like hours of indecision, she had settled on a black blouse and high, tailored black trousers. She even _dressed_ like she worked in a morgue. Great.  
  
On second thought, maybe he’d be into that.  
  
Her phone vibrated, startling her out of her musings. She was still just standing at the door. _Shit._  
  
**hey kate! just wanted to warn you, im already here. I know im early, im punctual to a fault. im the bald man sitting at the bar, navy shirt, jeans. hope to see you soon** _._

He called her Kate, short for Katherine, because that’s what she told him her name was. As much as they had talked, they had shared very few personal details. To her knowledge he currently had a boring government desk job. He had actively dommed for years, but never for money, and had stepped back recently from the scene, remaining socially involved with some old acquaintances but not sexually active. She knew his favorite movies and that he had a particular affinity for early Tom Waits. She knew that he spent time in Vietnam - a former Marine - and that he never personally got the appeal of exhibitionism or baseball. But that was it, really. 

Bald, navy shirt, jeans. She scanned the bar and found him instantly - as if he’d be hard to spot. He was _huge_. Not simply tall. Mulder had been tall, but he was willowy and awkward, never seeming to truly inhabit his own frame. This man had heft and presence, a confidence within his own body that immediately drew her to him. His muscle-tone and posture reaffirmed his past military service, if not continued field work with a government agency or law enforcement. His rolled-up sleeves clung to his arms, accentuating their size, as he animated the point he was trying to make to the bartender, a wry, thin man in his early thirties with a very ‘80s mustache. Unless Walt had a face like a horse or ended up being a total asshole, he was - well - hot.

She was elated, followed immediately by a deep insecurity. Scully steeled herself against her mounting nerves and approached. At the very least, if everything went absolutely sideways, she'd have a new friend. A very attractive friend.

It wasn’t until she was close enough to tap him on the shoulder that something felt off. A nagging thought tickling the back of her mind, telling her that she knew him from some other when and where. The wave of realization crashed down on her all at once. A large, divorced bald man, living in the D.C. area with a military background and time spent working for the federal government. She guessed from the content of his messages that he was a little older than she was.  
  
And his name was _Walter -_ a word she was unsuccessfully trying to stop herself from saying out loud.  
  
“Walt?”  
  
A question she already knew the answer to. Maybe the floor would open up and swallow her whole before he even saw her face. A nice spontaneous sinkhole would do her a world of good right now. Was there an X-File about that? Probably.

It took him a moment to turn around. When he did, all the color drained from his face. He fumbled his glass, spilling the small remainder of his drink across the bar. 

“Holy shit. Scully?”

It was Skinner. _Walter_ Skinner.

She had spent the last three months of her life not just falling for, but divulging her deepest sexual urges to Walter Skinner. Not just her former boss, but for a brief period in time her closest friend. She just stood there, mouth agape. Years of bureau training, and she couldn’t feel her legs. Her brain hopelessly tried to calculate the astronomical chances, statistically, that this moment would occur. Every second contained an eternity. She saw her own autopsy right now. Some beleaguered technician weighing her intestines, speaking into a tape recorder. “Cause of death: Extreme Mortification.”

He broke the tension first, apologizing to the bartender profusely for the spill. Flustered, he pulled out the chair next to his and gestured at it. 

“No. No, I should - I should probably go,” she stammered, shaking her head. Every damning, explicit message she ever sent on that godforsaken website flashed before her eyes. My god, he even helped her buy a vibrator. _The Skinman helped her buy a vibrator_. She would never go on the internet again. She was going to throw her laptop into the ocean. This was too much, and she needed to leave. She started to turn away, and he reached for her hand. Her breath hitched in her throat. Their eyes met. The bartender had the excellent sense to replace his drink in silence.  
  
“Please. Wait. Just - listen. Give me a second here. I’m just as shocked as you are, and probably just as embarrassed. This is a two-way street. We each know _quite_ a few things about the other at this point, things we maybe wouldn’t have shared otherwise,” he rubbed his jaw, and paused to think. “Besides, I haven’t seen or heard from you in _years._ It’s nice to see that you’re alive, but I’d like to know how you are.”

He had a point. It wouldn’t be entirely fair if she wandered into his life, like some sort of ghost of bureaus-past, then vanished without a word of explanation. He was a decent man, a good friend. She owed him some of her time and some closure.

“Kate. _Katherine_. Fuck. Your middle name is Katherine, isn’t it?” he mused. “I’m … an idiot.”  
  
“Oh, please. You used your own name and it didn’t once occur to me. If anyone should feel dense here, it’s me,” she relented, and sat down, “I hope you know, sir, that this was in no way intentional.”

He laughed abruptly, a warm rich sound she was sad she hadn't heard before. He searched her face and laughed again.

“What? It really wasn’t. I wouldn’t want you to think that I was - what is called - _catfishing_ you, or something like that.” She couldn’t see what was so amusing about this. A good part of her still wanted to run screaming to her car and never look back.

“You do realize you just called me ‘sir’, right?”

 _Oh my God._ She really did. It was an old habit - one that slipped out naturally. She was finding new and improved ways to embarrass herself. Was it possible to melt from shame? Would her atoms no longer have the dignity required to maintain cohesion? Spontaneous combustion no longer seemed an improbability.  
  
“Not only am I no longer your boss, there’s also, you know, the extracurricular _connotations_.” He lifted his eyebrows at this and she gave a small conciliatory laugh. “Please just call me by my name, Scully.”

She winced.

“Dana. Please. Just Dana. I haven’t been Scully to anyone in quite a while.” It was a loaded statement, and she hoped he understood the implication. He did.  
  
“That’s not the first thing I wanted to ask but,” he gazed downward into his glass, trying to find the best path to proceed, “you’re alone? I hate to phrase it like this, but - Jesus. He is okay, right?”

She chose her next words carefully.

“Yes. I am alone and he is … okay. At least as okay as I think he ever truly can be. We haven’t been involved in that way for several years now.” There. She could hold it at arm's length, and it wouldn’t tear her apart. Were they ever even involved? They had a child together. And yet she still wasn’t sure what they ever really meant to each other. They were never good at looking at things in the light, choosing instead to live in vagaries and half-truths. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it too much. It’s domestic and mundane, I can promise you that much.” 

“And are you okay?”

“I met a man on _that_ kind of website, never learned his name, and drove an hour to meet him in a different city. I don’t really know,” she offered half-heartedly, gesturing to the bartender. “I do know that I need something to drink. Gin and tonic, please?”

“Our well is Tanqueray. Does that work?” the bartender asked. She nodded in approval, having a hard time looking at anything but his very intentional and very absurd mustache. He was friendly and she almost felt bad. “Can I get you another beer, Walt?”  
  
“Sure," he smiled conspiratorially. "But first - two tequilas. Neat.”

“Sure thing, boss.” 

The bartender set the two glasses on the bar and turned to grab the bottle.  
  
“Really?” Dana asked, feeling far too old to be shooting much of anything.

“I've known you for almost two decades, through countless near death hospital stays, a pregnancy, and definitely some light treason. And now, after not seeing you since that insane fever dream with the body-part replacement cult or whatever, some bizarre cosmic oddity of circumstance and improbability has brought you here. I’d like to celebrate with a shot, but no pressure,” he said. “If you don’t want yours, I’ll give it to my delightful friend Todd, here.”

“You are a true gentleman and a scholar, Walt,” Bartender Todd replied, pouring. “I thought you were waiting on a mystery girl. Seems like she isn’t too much of a mystery to you after all.”

As if to prove a point, Dana pointedly took her glass from the bar and pushed the other towards him.

“He doesn’t know me anywhere near as well as he thinks he does. Cheers." She downed the shot, fighting the urge to grimace. Tequila was not her spirit of choice, but she didn’t want him to see that.

He saw it anyway and grinned. 

“So you work in a morgue now?” He was attempting to steer the conversation to somewhere less charged, to the present instead of their dramatic shared past. It was an obvious move, but that didn't make her any less thankful for it. There were questions that needed to be answered eventually, but they could wait. 

“Yes, I do. It’s comforting. A real return to basics for me. There isn’t any winning or losing. Just a quiet sterile room, the even quieter dead, and clean impersonal analysis. I spent too many years trying to save people and it took far too much of me. Took too much _from_ me,” she reflected. “You should know, you were there.”

“People find ways to cope. There’s no right or wrong way to unpack. As long as you aren’t hurting anyone. Yourself included,” he elaborated. “And God knows we both have enough baggage as it is. Stuff you really can’t tell a therapist - security clearance be damned. I don't think I _want_ to tell some doctor about seeing a literal spaceship in the woods.”

She had never considered the extent to which his time with the bureau would have hurt him. A wave of shame washed over her. She had never really considered him very much at all, taking for granted that friendship and protection he had extended to her in Mulder's absence. An image of him infected with some strange virus, laying in a hospital bed as the nanotechnology decimated his circulatory system. The time he beat a man half to death in an elevator just to get her some vital piece of information, as they tried yet again to save Mulder from himself. He had come to her covered in blood that was more than a little bit his own. She thought too of the way she berated him in the middle of the hall, half-crazed with the fear that Mulder was drowning in a shipwreck somewhere. Grabbing his lapels later, she had kissed him. She and Mulder had a habit of destroying everyone around them, including themselves.  
  
“Is that what this is for you? Coping?”

“Is that what .. what is?” He didn’t seem to be avoiding her question, just genuinely perplexed.

“You know,” she struggled to find a polite phrasing of the concept, not wanting to announce to everyone within earshot the nature of their meeting. “The sex thing.”  
  
“Funny. I had forgotten that’s how we ended up here." He stared at the ceiling, whistling low and long. “It would be a hard thing to reconcile if it didn’t make so much damn sense.”

“If what didn’t make sense?” The confusion shifted back to her.

“This,” he paused, waiting for her to understand, continuing when it was obvious that she did not. “You. Not that we’d end up here, together, like this. But the things you’ve told me and all I’ve seen of you over the years.”

“Are you suggesting you always thought of me as some kind of sexual deviant?” Whatever he was getting at certainly felt violating, and she took offense almost immediately.

“No! That’s not - _Jesus_. The woman I’ve been talking to was so open-minded, and then you come here and call it a ‘sex thing’ and suggest I think of you as some kind of pervert. You know better. I _know_ you know better.”

“You’re right. That was unfair of me, and I am sorry." She was losing ground in this conversation. He kept getting her to play her hand, and so far he had shown her not a single card. "You still haven't answered either of my questions. Don't think I didn't notice."  
  
“Right. Well. Your first question? Yes, this is how I cope. I joined the bureau much like you, thinking I could somehow make a difference. Do some good. You know, naive recruit shit. That ‘I’m gonna save the world’ mentality. I gave myself to my work, and it destroyed my marriage. I turned to the bureau to fill that void, hoping that somehow it would give me something in return. You saw how well that worked. Hell, you two at least had each other and a sense of purpose. I just had paperwork, and a full fucking ashtray on my desk, always there like some kind of threat. I felt - out of control.

"You think you know some things about the world. You think that the bad guys are just men, who operate by human rules and can be cuffed and booked. You think that conspiracy theories about some secret government cabal putting alien DNA in our vaccines are just crackpot bullshit. And then you watch someone you care about be rotted from the inside. You see a man get taken by aliens and returned as a corpse, only to resurrect like some kind of Lazarus of the new millennium. You see shit like a team of scientists trying to put a head on someone else’s body. You know that was my last case? I transferred after that. I’m working an easy desk job in auto theft, just trying to make it to a full pension. I guess my binders of faked VINs are like your corpses - at least they go where I tell them to and don’t pull guns on me.” He laughed to himself at that. He wasn't wrong - they really did try and shoot him a lot.

  
"I’m sorry.” She blushed, watching her nails drag across the inside of her wrist. “For pulling a gun on you at least. There were extenuating circumstances, I guess. If that makes it any better. God. There were always so many circumstances then, such a constant state of fear. You know, I can’t remember the last time I even _held_ a gun. I’d like to say it feels good but I’m not so sure.

"What did you mean, before, when you said it made sense? About me?”

“I know you, Dana. I saw first hand what happened to you. You went for years without a shred of stability in your life. At any minute you could be kidnapped or shot at. Unspeakable horrors lurked behind every corner - horrors both human and supernatural. You lost family and friends in painful ways. You couldn’t trust a single one of the people you worked for, and sometimes that even included me. People you did trust violated your body and your mind. You have always had to hold white-knuckled onto whatever control you could - it follows that the most arousing thing in the world to you is the idea that you could simply let go, and know that someone will catch you.” He spoke gently now, seemingly afraid that he had overstepped in his analysis. “You just want to feel safe.”

Her eyes felt misty and there wasn’t enough air in the bar. He was right - all she wanted was safety, yearning for a single moment in which she could simply exist in the certainty that she would be okay. Mulder never gave her that. Frankly, he was never in a position to, locked in a perpetual struggle with demons of his own. He was constantly trying to find validation within her, every kiss or gentle touch pleaded for reassurance. God forbid she let go too, for then they would both be lost. She could not be both the port and the storm.  
  
All of this was starting to hit uncomfortably close to home. Feeling a little too intoxicated and a little too vulnerable, she tried to force a small laugh. It rang weak and hollow.

“And here I thought I had father issues.”   
  
“I think they're called _daddy_ issues.” He reached over and laid his hand on top of hers. It was calloused and warm and totally dwarfed hers in comparison. “You’re deflecting. You need this Dana, or at least I think you do. I have some friends in Baltimore. People I trust, people that I think could do this for you. I could reach out for you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I’d hate to think of you turning your back on something that could be such a force of good for you.” Something was bothering him. He couldn’t seem to make eye contact with her. 

“No, you misunderstand me,” she said, drawing her hand back. She was unable to follow this line of thought. “Why would I need someone else? Unless - I mean, if this is uncomfortable for you - if you don’t want to -” 

“Now you misunderstand. I have absolutely no problem with you.” He laughed broadly and perhaps a little drunkenly. It did something to her, seeing him so full of mirth. She never realized how _solid_ he was, how vibrant and alive. “You’re - Jesus, how could I not want you? I assumed you would feel uncomfortable with me.” 

“ _How could you not want me?_ ” She repeated back thickly. This conversation was beginning to spin away from both of them. She felt tingly and reckless, her pulse a dull thud in her ears. 

“Walter,” The name felt unfamiliar on her tongue and she took a moment to feel it out. “What exactly are we saying here?”

What exactly was _she_ saying?  
  
“I think I know, but I’d really appreciate you saying it out loud, just so I don’t jump to an embarrassingly wrong conclusion here.”

“I don’t know if I can.” Was any of this actually happening? They were circling each other with vague flirtations now.

“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying and want from me what I think you want from me, you’re going to need to do a lot better than that,” he said. “I am a stickler for explicit and enthusiastic consent in these matters.” 

“But do you want to? With me?”

“Dana. I can assure you I have never wanted anything so badly in my life. But what I need from you, before this can go any further, is for you to look me in the eyes and tell me what it is that you want.” His eyes met hers and the steel of his gaze caught her off guard. There was no more room for evasion or play. She was sure this was a preview of what he was like behind closed doors. Taking a deep breath, she found the courage to press forward and attempt to articulate what she wanted.

“Fine. I want you to do - I want you to do the things you said you would do. To me. I want to submit with you - submit to you. Goddammit, Walter. You know what I mean.“ She felt out-of-body, her words coming from somewhere else. “I want to let go. And I want you to catch me.”

“I just wanted you to say that you wanted me to fuck you," he teased, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "But God, that was so much better."  
  
They stared at each other, stunned. Her head spun. She came here tonight in the interest of a possible friendship, maybe more. And then she found her boss.

And now she felt minutes away from tearing her clothes off. Flashes of messages, things they talked about it, but in _his_ voice, with _his_ hands on her body. She had worried about feeling uncomfortable with her mystery man, but with Walter she had never felt safer in her life. That certainly made things much easier.

“Shit,” she whispered. “What are we doing? What am _I_ doing?”

“I don’t know. I think we need to pause for a second.” He motioned at Todd for their check, reaching in his coat pocket for his wallet. “What do you say we go for a walk?”


	2. Cigarettes and Coffee

The October air outside the bar was crisp and lean; it gave her the much needed mental clarity she had lacked inside. It was thoughtful of him and assuredly beneficial to them both to change the venue for the continuation of their conversation. He was still settling their tab, and she took this time by herself to stare at the night sky. Forever the Navy man, her father had made sure to teach her at a young age to spot Polaris. It was a habit she never lost and even in the light pollution of the city she could make it out. That bright blinking light centered her, left her grounded wherever she found herself. She loved to look at those stars during the darkest bouts with her cancer, when she was so certain of her death. Letting them dwarf her with their magnitude and mind-boggling distances gave her a certain sense of freedom, made her mistakes and triumphs feel insignificant. The earth beneath her feet and all those lights above were there before her and would be there much longer still.  
  
“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight, Dana?”

Walter’s voice came to her from somewhere else, an ethereal radio wave from beyond. The path before her contained infinite possibilities. She tended to wax philosophical when she drank. _Oops. Ground Control to Major Scully._ She blinked and apologized for not noticing him sooner.

“It’s fine. Listen - I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, but I’m only a few blocks away and I have a guest room you can use. I promise this is just an offer of a place to stay, as a friend. I’d really just rather you not make that drive back tonight by yourself.” Shuffling, he fumbled with his keys. Was he nervous?  
  
“I had planned to stay at a hotel, actually. But that sounds lovely, Walter." She flashed him a reassuring smile. "I have an overnight bag in my car I’d like to go get.”

He really did live quite close, initially walking to meet her and intending on walking back anyway. He insisted on carrying her small duffel bag for her. She had wanted to protest but the gesture was so unexpectedly tender that she couldn’t quite bring herself to say anything at all. 

Time flowed by slowly, their footfalls echoing on the sidewalk into the empty night. Their silence was companionable and comfortable, a rhythm from years prior that they fell back into easily enough. She felt as if the quiet evening was her co-conspirator. He was the first to break its spell.

“Dana … I don’t know how to ask this, but how on earth did you find me?” 

She sighed. How could she even begin to explain? She had hoped that somehow this wouldn’t be addressed. Even after all of the explicit content they had shared, it was such a different experience to share this sort of thing with him in person. To look Walter in the eyes and tell _him._

“Promise you won’t laugh? It’s - well. It _feels_ embarrassing. I’m sure you don’t think it is, but I am not the sort of person who discusses these things candidly.” Dana was raised Catholic - she didn’t think of herself as a prude per se, but there were still some things about herself she had a hard time vocalizing. 

“I really thought you would understand at this point that you can tell me anything, Dana.” He caressed her name, his sturdy baritone making her heart flutter. It was a pleasant reprieve from the sharp clip of _Scully._ Humans are inordinately pleased by the sound of their own names, or so she had read somewhere.

“I was,” she paused, and breathed at the stars, hoping to find that comforting cosmic perspective once again. _Pale blue dot, insignificant, remember?_ “I was watching - porn. I was watching porn. Online.”

“Seeing as I have never filmed or participated in any pornography, to my knowledge, I don’t think that’s a complete explanation,” he playfully chided.

He had never been one for bullshit or double-talk of any kind, at work or at home apparently. She usually admired his abruptness, but it was certainly causing her some distress now. 

“I haven’t watched a lot of _pornography_ in my lifetime. I find most of it, historically speaking, to be extremely off-putting. It is a largely aggressive, male-dominated field, and frankly, more often than not, I can't shake the worry that the women are being exploited and harmed. I had read some articles recently on how the field is starting to diversify, and attempting to make more ‘female-friendly’ content. So I decided to try again. And I found that videos of women alone were much more erotic than those of women being _used_ by men.”  
  
“Do you find women attractive?” It was a question free of judgement, born merely of curiosity.  
  
“No. No, that’s not it.” She covered her face with her hands, feeling a hot crimson flush across her cheeks. At least it was dark out. Maybe he couldn’t even see her. It felt strangely like being in a confessional. _Forgive me, Assistant Director, for I have sinned. It has been several years since my last confession…_ “God, I can’t believe I’m telling you all of this. _Why_ am I telling you all of this? It feels so irrelevant.”

“I promise it isn’t. Please, go on.”

“Alright. Fine. There was a video of a woman. She was bound. And a man was there, but he never used her for himself. And that stuck with me. He used his hands on her and various … _implements._ I had seen snippets of fetish porn before, BDSM footage, but it always seemed so distinctly degrading for at least one party.”  
  
He nodded in comprehension. “But the difference here is that it was about _her_ , right? He wasn’t using her as a tool for his pleasure or tormenting her to fulfill some base masochistic impulse. It was about a need of hers, yeah?”

“Yes! Exactly. In a way .... it felt like he was caring for her.”

She had forgotten just how quickly he was able understand her. It was that easy understanding that initially had drawn her to him. The ability to utter a concept half-formed and find him so ready to complete it was refreshing. But it wasn't some organic coincidence - it was a communicative bond built over years of mutual existence. The mystery stranger she had so readily connected with was really one of her oldest friends.

“Thank you for sharing that. It means a lot.” He stopped to allow her admittance its appropriate weight, his coat swinging with the change in momentum. “Still doesn’t answer my question.”  
  
“Oh God. Sorry. In the comments of the video - someone said they found it based on a recommendation from a message board. They linked to the thread,” she smiled now, biting her lip. “It was you who had recommended the video originally.”

By now they had walked several blocks, arriving at a nondescript well-kept home of moderate size. The front walk was lined with rust-colored Celosia blooms, while an explosion of English Ivy had consumed most of the front side of the home. Walter was apparently harboring one hell of a green thumb. Pausing before opening the door he threw her a wordless glance, a thought bubbling to the surface of his mind only to be wrestled back down.  
  
In a gesture of chivalry, he stopped to help her with her coat. As he did, his hand brushed against her shoulder and for a brief moment he seemed to revel in the sensation. Catching himself in the act of indiscretion, he drew it back sharply. Her body involuntarily followed the retraction of his touch, and she swayed for a moment, small and imperceptible. She felt like the heroine in an Austen novel, swooning at the merest suggestion of physical contact.  
  
He cleared his throat.

“I’m uh, going to grab us something to eat. Feel free to look around.”

The house was abundantly welcoming and pleasantly decorated. Hardwood floors were sporadically blanketed with an eclectic assortment of rugs. Houseplants of every variety emerged from any space they could fit in, affecting the atmosphere with a verdant liveliness. It was odd - she had always imagined him as a classic, cookie-cutter G-man; devoid of personality, taste or preference. She thought of her own sparse and sterile seeming home, her Aloe Vera plant clinging to life despite her ineptitude. She thought too of Mulder’s hopelessly cluttered and barely lived-in apartment. Maybe she had been projecting. It was a tendency of people, she mused, to forget that everyone is in fact the hero of their own rich narrative. That she had never considered for a moment that Walter had a life beyond the time they shared - it struck her as shallow and regrettably selfish.

A compactly muscular and perturbed-looking black cat mewled at her in accusation from the sofa before darting across the room and up the stairs. 

“Estrevan’s quite friendly, once you get to know him. He just takes a while to acclimate to strangers.”

A stranger. That’s certainly how she felt in this house. And how she had begun to feel to herself as of late.

The kitchen, visible from any vantage point on the first floor, was open and bright. She watched him fiddle with his phone, and music started to play from a few speakers in the living room and kitchen. It was some sad and gravelly tune and he grimaced before skipping it. A quiet, piano driven piece replaced it. He pushed his sleeves up and started to rummage in his fridge. A wave of voyeuristic self-consciousness washed over her and Dana instead turned her attention to the large crowded bookshelves that dominated the living room. They contained mostly battered paperbacks - old and new, science fiction and mystery, classic literature alongside pulp.  
  
Everything around her - the home that looked lived in, the music, the scores of well-loved books - reminded her of the life she gave up. The hours spent chasing tanker trucks and sleeping in shitty motels and drinking awful diner coffee were hours she could’ve spent living a life. Did she regret it? Not necessarily. Would she change a single day? Never. But there was still a sudden empty melancholy threatening to carry her away.  
  
“You don’t have any nut allergies or anything do you?”

A question so simple and superficial was a welcome reprieve from her reverie and she grasped the lifeline it represented with both hands. On the counter was a modest cheese board with an assortment of nuts and crostini. _What the_ _hell?_ She thought of her near empty refrigerator at home and laughed.

“What’s so funny? Am I trying too hard?” Peering at her over the top of his glasses, he looked genuinely a little concerned.

“No! No. I don’t know. I just assumed that all of us long-term government types lived in pre-furnished apartments with empty pantries and neglected takeout containers.” Taking a seat at one of the two stools by the counter, he poured her a glass of white wine. “I look around at your house and you - you spent all these years building something for yourself, while I just. Didn’t. “

He sat next to her and put his hand over hers.

“Don’t judge your progress against mine. Everyone's journey is different. You have had so much more to unpack than I have.” He took a swallow of wine, and using the time to gather his thoughts, gently swished it against his teeth. “I went through some dark times. Really bleak stuff. What you’re seeing is Newton’s Third Law at work. This is _years_ worth of pushing back.”

“Alright,” she mulled aloud, choosing the perfect handful of almonds, “I told you how I got here. Quid pro quo. How, exactly, does Walter Skinner, former Marine and Assistant Director at the FBI, end up doling out advice on a kink community forum?”

“Ah. You always were a talented investigator. Remember those dark times I mentioned? My marriage imploded. I ended up unmoored - drinking, smoking, constantly looking for a fight or a fuck. I'm not proud of it, but it happened all the same. It was around that time that things started to really explode at the bureau - it was less than a year between Sharon leaving and your illness.” She was taken aback, that he would be so affected by her cancer. The scope of her life’s collateral damage continued to amaze her. He rubbed at his beard, unsure how to proceed. “I was alone at home and in my work, watching the people I had trusted - the system I had believed in - churn out some really awful stuff and hurt a lot of people.

“I was out one night, late, way later than I had any business being out and in a neighborhood I had no business being in. I was stumbling home from some shithole bar and I heard a scuffle in the alley. There was a woman, and this guy was grabbing her, and she was trying to push him away - I didn’t even stop to think. I beat the shit out of him. It was strange, honestly. I was so fucked up, so angry about everything. I’m not even sure I cared about helping her - I think I just wanted to hurt someone. To get hurt. To feel something. She was really thankful anyway. Asked me to come get coffee with her and some friends the next afternoon. Insisted, really.

“It was an eclectic group, women, men, some gay - they were all really nice people and really thankful that I had helped Irene out. I didn’t realize until much later - after Irene and I started seeing each other - that they were all in the local BDSM scene. I don’t think I would’ve been so open to it if I hadn’t met them as people first, if I hadn’t had the opportunity to see how _normal_ they were. It was never very serious between us - Irene and I - but the way she talked about what she did for her submissives was so appealing to me. She joked about how good of a dom I could be, and eventually it stopped being a joke. Initially, as a way of ‘training me’ so to speak, I was her submissive, which I never particularly enjoyed one way or the other but was definitely eye-opening.”

The thought of him, a veritable wall of strength and masculinity, submitting to the hands of a woman appealed to her far more than she had previously considered. _Something to file away for later._

“I branched out. I dommed for some of the more experienced submissives in our friend group. They helped teach me. They were some great years, honestly. To have a group of friends that care about you so openly, and honestly, and without boundaries. I’m still in touch with a few of them today.”  
  
“And what about Irene?” A moment of petty female jealousy, but her curiosity needed to be sated.

“We were close friends for a long time. Probably the closest friend I ever had. She passed a few years ago. A stroke, sudden and unexpected. It was what really pushed me back out of the scene, at least in an active capacity. Seeing the same people, knowing she wouldn’t be there - it hurt. You know, I don’t think it was just gratitude when she made me get that coffee. I think she could tell I was someone who needed help.” 

“I’m sorry.” Her confession now paled in comparison to his, once again giving him the conversational high ground.

“Don't be, please. I’m going to clean things up, and grab something from my office. Go ahead and sit in the living room - I’ll meet you in there shortly.”

She sat on the couch, feet curled under her legs, absentmindedly swirling the wine in her glass. Every once in a while when their conversation ebbed, she was reminded of the surreality of the situation. When he returned with a printed checklist and a pen, it hit her in full force.  
  
“If we’re - if you’re _serious_ about this, I’d like you to look this over for me. It's pretty standard procedure. If there’s anything you need clarification on, I’d be more than happy to explain.” Smiling, he looked at her feet on the couch. “It’s funny, I had forgotten how small you are.”  
  
And she had forgotten how imposing he was. His form filled the chair he sat in opposite her, a chair she would’ve comfortably slept in.

She turned her attention to the paper and grew wide-eyed. It was a list of sexual activities, and next to each one was a choice of ‘yes - maybe - no’. 

“You can’t be serious - some of these - _Walter_. Bloodplay?”

He raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Not everything listed is something I want to do, nor do I expect you to. It’s important to be thorough. It’s just as helpful to know what you don’t like as what you do. It helps paint a complete picture. Consent is vital in something like this, and it makes both of our lives easier if I don’t need to ask and feel my way through this. If you tell me now there’s something you want to try, I can just bring it up later. A surprise you actually _want_ is far sexier in this scenario then something we’d both end up feeling uncomfortable about.”

He did have a point. And the list covered everything from the innocuous ( _tickling_ ) to the extreme (public humiliation? She wasn’t even sure what that would entail). As she began to check _yes_ (breathplay - orgasm denial - rope bondage) on more things than she anticipated, her face began to flush. She idly wondered what _his_ list looked like, and worried her lip with her teeth.

“I also want you to know - what we're doing here - there will be boundaries. First, you aren't promising me anything. We are friends, Dana, and that is all that you owe me.

“I also need you to understand - the man I am in that room, in that space with you - will be different than the one you’re talking to now. I will do what you want and need me to do, but not as Walter. Conversely, you can exist in that space differently than you do now. You don’t have to worry about being Dana Scully. You can just - be you.”  
  
She yawned without meaning to. It was much later than she had thought, and all at once she felt the weight of the evening settle over her. How badly she wished for him to sit with her, to lean into the solid warmth of his chest and close her eyes. It was a desire that caught her off-guard.  
  
“It’s late. I’m sorry. I got carried away. Look, how about I show you where the guest room is, and you can give that back to me in the morning?” 

So he really was serious about the guest room. It was strange to her - they were so close yet so far apart. They were planning future sexual encounters, but the idea of merely sleeping together at this stage was foreign and crude. He lingered by the door as she set her bag on the bed, hands in his pockets like some nervous schoolboy. Neither of them seemed sure of how to end the evening. Too much had been said, but far more had been left unsaid. 

“Thank you, Dana. For tonight. For not leaving when you saw me at the bar.”  
  
Unable to find the words to express herself, she walked to him. She had to strain rather hard to reach, taking a moment to let her lips gently brush against his cheek. He closed his eyes and inhaled, slowly. Then he turned, and closed the door, leaving her alone with her thoughts and that _damned_ checklist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning into quite the thing. I promise there will eventually be sex!


	3. Some Velvet Morning

There is something distinctly jarring about waking somewhere that isn’t your own bed. A primal fear, that singular moment of absolute unknowing where the sheets aren’t right against your skin and the air has a different smell. You know somehow, before your eyes even open, that you aren’t where you should be.

Dana Scully now sat in that void of uncertainty. Sunlight streamed through the blinds and a carefully positioned wide-leaved _Calathea Orbifolia_ on the nightstand was straining now to reach the first morning rays. It must have still been relatively early. Images of last night began to knit together - the bar, Polaris, a scruffy black cat, and Walter’s face as her lips brushed against his cheek. The way he held his breath and seemed so fragile - maybe she imagined it. She idly hoped that she hadn’t.

She had always found waking up in someone else’s home a tricky situation to navigate. A one-night stand was easy; she could simply leave before he woke up, and never deal with the consequences of her actions. This was something else. It felt much too intimate. Mornings are a quiet sacred time, a personal ritual for some, and she couldn't be sure how Walter felt about them. Not wanting to wander the house in her night clothes, she decided to shower and ready herself for whatever the day would entail. The guest room had an attached bathroom, a privacy she was immensely grateful for. 

Waiting for the water to heat, she took the time to gaze at her naked form in the mirror and was startled by what she found. She had always been a slender woman but the ravages of time and various battles left her feeling worn and small. A litany of scars were carved into her flesh, each one a reminder of her mortality. (The gunshot scar on her lower right side questioned it.) Her fingertips brushed against her lower ribs and the top of her hip bones, marveling at the stark relief they stood in. Her breasts were small and her hips narrow and both were marred by a network of stretch marks from her curious pregnancy. The image was all together far too un-womanly - it looked like a ravaged battlefield. Would he want her once he saw her like this? This mixture of sharp angles and flat plains? 

Her shower was a long meditative chance to refresh both her body and her mind. 

Clad in a comfortable pair of jeans and a simple knit raglan pullover with her hair in a loose-low bun, she looked in the mirror and saw only soft and care-worn Dana, the person she had come to be these last few years alone. She scanned herself for signs of the old Scully - the one who took no prisoners, who walked at a fierce clip and wore well-tailored skirt suits. Which one would he prefer? The Dana that she was now or the Scully that she used to be?

She sighed to herself, grabbed the checklist from last-night and found the courage to venture into the hall. Cautiously, she poked her head from behind the bedroom door. The house was silent, giving her the hope that he was awake already. It would feel violating - moving around in his home while he slept. The stairs creaked suddenly and noisily. The memory of sneaking out at night at thirteen years old to smoke her mother’s cigarettes came to her unbidden, and left a stale taste in her mouth. _You’re a grown-up girl, Dana. And it’s not like you don’t know the man,_ she reminded herself. _He’s talked about choking you. He's repeatedly saved your life. And you’ve also put a gun in his face._

Once downstairs, it became clear that the cat was her only companion this morning. 

A hastily-scribbled note left for her on the kitchen counter read: 

_out for run. be back soon. tea/coffee in cabinet above left of sink._

This confirmation that she was, indeed, alone this morning drained the tension from her body. She turned on the kettle, searched for a mug, and found a sachet of fancy-looking organic genmaicha, in what she took to be an intimidatingly well-stocked cabinet of teas. Waiting for the water to sing, she took the checklist from her pocket, finding herself unable to look at it again in the light of day. She settled for leaving it folded on top of his note.

A recent newspaper sat on the counter, disheveled and clearly read. She was pleased to find the crossword still blank and settled in with her tea. By the time Estraven bolted from the his perch on the window sill to the front door, her mug was empty and the puzzle nearly complete.

A key jiggled in the lock, then Walter entered sweat-slick and breathless. His t-shirt clung to his rising and falling chest where a damp ring extended from the base of his neck. Dana had to fight for a moment to not be visibly shaken - it was an extremely arousing sight and one she was certainly not prepared to grapple with before noon. He crouched in the doorway, allowing Estraven to greedily thump his head into Walter’s palm and mewl in accusation.

“He always acts like I’m not going to come back. Won’t deign to be within three feet of me when I’m here, but the second I’m out the door it’s like I’ve gone off to war,” he admonished playfully. “Did you finish that thing I gave you?”

“The list?” she struggled. “It’s on the counter with your note. Thanks for that by the way. It was very thoughtful.”

“Oh please. I give that list to _all_ my submissives,” he teased. “I'm sorry, that was a shitty joke. I know you meant the note. I’m going to take a quick shower, if you don’t mind. It’s more for me than it is for you. I sweat pretty violently, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. When I come back down we’ll talk logistics.”

He took the list from the counter and started to read as he headed for the stairs. She wished he hadn’t taken it while she was still here. It left her uneasy - the knowledge that somewhere in this house he was evaluating her desires and sizing her up as she just sat in his kitchen and waited. He was gone for all of fifteen minutes but it passed like an eternity just the same.

“ _Shit,_ ” he called from the top of the stairs. “Dana. I have some bad news. This isn’t going to work.”

 _Oh no oh god_ was her list _that_ bad? She was mortified then abruptly confused. He seemed to be hurriedly dressing for work - dark slacks, a pressed white shirt still half-open, a tie draped haphazardly around his neck. She desperately wanted to tie it for him and the domesticity of her own desire amused her. Mulder hated wearing a tie and she couldn't remember ever tying one for him. 

“What’s going on?”

“I just got a call from the office. One of my cases is apparently now related to a series of homicides in a totally different department. They need me to verify some paperwork. I’m so sorry. I’m going to have to go in for most of the day. Possibly the whole goddamn weekend. I can give you a lift back to your car on the way in.”

 _Oh._ This left her much sadder than she could justify to herself.

“Well - um. I guess I’ll go upstairs and get my things together.” As she walked past him, he reached for her hand.  
  
“Listen, I really am sorry. I’m not just saying that - I was truly looking forward to spending some time with you today.”  
  
When she got to the top of the stairs, she could just barely hear him call out to her.

“You look nice today like this, Dana. Softer somehow.”

The brief ride to her car was less than comfortable. Seeing him dressed for work produced a cognitive dissonance within her that was hard to bridge. While he served as a reminder of a time in her life that she’d rather not dwell on, her foolish predilection for authority figures made her want to jump his bones. On top of that, the perception she had of him as a friend was at constant odds with her perception of him as the potential romantic partner she had decided to meet with. She quietly glanced out of the window and broke her silence only to tell him they had reached her car.

From the moment she left her house until now, the last several hours had passed like a dream. She worried that by leaving him now they were breaking the spell. Perhaps that would be the hardest thing. To take this magical accidental thing and make it real. Before he drove off he made her promise to text him as soon as she got home safely. 

She wasn’t sure why but for a few minutes alone in her car on the highway, she cried. She thought about Mulder. She thought about Jack Willis and Daniel Waterston and even Ed Jerse and wondered if this could be any different. If this could be a good choice. If she was even _capable_ of making a good choice. 

Her apartment was exactly how she left it - the empty sterility of its minimal furniture and grey stucco walls sat in unpleasant contrast to the house she had just been in. Sullen and moody, she kicked off her shoes and tossed her sweater onto the counter. After making sure to send Walter a quick text message confirmation that _yes_ she had survived the drive back, she flopped down in the center of her tightly-made bed, another habit she had picked up as a Navy brat. The quiet of her apartment allowed her mind to wander.

Walter baffled her. He made sure to communicate several times that his only expectation was for friendship. But was this for his benefit or hers? Was he giving her an out, or did he genuinely not want anything else from her? He kept her at arm’s length but trembled when she touched him. 

She thought about that almost-kiss, the way his skin felt against her lips, the way his beard grazed her flesh. She wondered what it would feel like to really kiss him. Would he hold her firmly or would his hands rove impatiently across her back? Would his kisses be long and deep or urgent and greedy?

Rationally, she knew that she was moving too fast. But even the most rational of people are swept in the current of new romance. She wondered - hoped - that he was starting to drown the same way she was. Desire curled in her belly and she slid a hand idly into her bra, cupping her breast.

She pictured him as he was that morning, in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and loose sweatpants, flushed with the exertion of his morning run. He stretched out languidly across the full length of his sofa, his chest rising and falling in labored breaths. Dipping her hand into the front of her jeans, she imagined Walter sliding his pants down just enough to free his erect length. Gently at first, somewhat halfheartedly, she began to circle her clit. She thought of him spitting into his palm, massaging the tip of his rigidly-hard cock to wet himself, and she moaned.

It was somewhat narcissistic. Not only was she masturbating, thinking of him, but she was imagining _him_ thinking of _her_. A masturbatory ouroboros flagrantly consuming itself. 

Her hips started to rock upward to meet the now-earnest rubbing of her hand, synchronizing with his imagined strokes. Picturing him with his eyes closed, biceps twitching as his fist furiously worked himself, toes gripping the arm of the couch, was almost enough for her to climax. Her other hand ventured upward and firmly grasped her nipple, rolling it between her thumb and index finger. Nipple torture was something she had ranked as a ‘maybe’, but now she wondered if it shouldn’t have been an outright ‘yes.’

It was only when she imagined her name on his lips - his hips lifting as he spasmed into his hand, his other hand covering his mouth in an attempt to stifle his groan of _Dana_ \- that she was gripped by the first waves of her own orgasm.

As she laid on her bed, her sweat-damp hand resting on her pelvic bone, her exposed breast chilled by the air, she began to realize how much trouble she was really in. Her phone vibrated on her nightstand.

**I can’t stop thinking about you. I won’t be free from this case until the weekend. But I can’t wait to see you again. Thank you, Dana. For everything.**

Fuck.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented so far!
> 
> Also today I learned, from The X-Files fanwiki:  
> 'Mitch Pileggi admitted in a 2013 panel that Skinner was in love with Scully but knew he never had a chance with her, given her closeness with Agent Mulder.'
> 
> So. There's that.


	4. Try A Little Tenderness

Her week was a mundane slog of heart attacks, strokes, and mangled car-crash victims. An endless cycle of offal on scales, scalpel incisions, and changes of latex gloves. Walter was bogged down in his own bureaucratic hellscape and she didn’t hear from him as much as she usually did. They decided to meet on Saturday for their first official ‘session’, whatever that entailed. Frankly, she had no idea what to expect and the hours she was not elbow deep in cadavers, she was wildly oscillating between nerves and tentative lust.

Always the academic, she thought she might feel more prepared if she did some research. Dana Scully sat alone that Friday night, bathed in the artificial glow of her computer screen, and experimentally browsed PornHub. She rubbed her temples beneath the arms of her glasses. This felt like a pointless exercise. 

Nothing the front page algorithms saw fit to provide her with was titillating. Before her eyes unfolded an appalling carnival of distorted erotic imagery. It was a fun house mirror, a mosaic of the modern psyche in pixelated thumbnails. Falsely engorged phalluses assaulting every possible orifice. Mascara-streamed faces. ‘Step-sisters’ in compromising positions. _Eugh._

It was a strange experience - she felt so much safer and sheltered within her fringe pornography than in the wilds of mainstream erotica. A woman’s bound body, worshiped and violated by unknown hands, was a comforting sight when contrasted with swollen semen-soaked lips. 

Her cursor hovered over the category selection when a thumbnail caught her eye. Immediately her stomach dropped. She shut her laptop without a second thought. Consumed by memory, she had recognized the woman from a video she had seen only once before. 

Years ago in a misguided attempt to ‘spice things up’, Mulder talked her into partaking in an erotic film with him, one from his ample collection. She remembered it so clearly - sitting on his couch in his apartment, his arm a heavy weight around her shoulders. The fish tank bubbled a syncopated accompaniment to the sounds of fellatio from the television. Why did men like it when women _gagged_? Without realizing it, his arousal grew in direct proportion to her discomfort. She thought of the countless lewd scenarios that he had seen and it left her feeling inadequate and small. 

But she _loved_ him. 

So she pretended to enjoy it anyway. She slipped down from the couch to rest between his knees - praying he would take it as a gesture of emulation and not a welcome opportunity to face away from the screen. He smiled at her afterwards, so blissfully and full of love. The memory of it gutted her. It’s amazing how much we will let the ones we love take from us without their ever knowing.

Ever since she was a child, she feared loss. So she built a fortress around herself, a fortress that became as much a prison as it was a sanctuary. Her early boyfriends would call her _frigid_ , an insult that wedged itself forever in the foundations of her mind. As a result, more times than she could count, she chose to go through the motions. The salt-tang taste of semen would always remind her of these little shames, these tiny allowances. These pieces of herself she gave away, in an elaborate game of brinksmanship with her own desires. She went after the most inappropriate men she could find - men that were too old for her, men that were married, men she met in bars that took her to get cursed tattoos. Mulder was the one time she chose differently. Someone safe. And look how well that turned out.

Any desire to continue her erotic reconnaissance had evaporated. Her phone blinked. One unread message.

**Just wanted to make sure you still felt good about tomorrow. No pressure if you don’t. I’d like to see you regardless.**

This relentless pursuit of her consent comforted her. Whatever tomorrow brought she could handle. Her fate was in Walter’s hands now.

And what capable hands they were.

* * *

He had given her a choice - they could meet somewhere public first, get dinner or a drink and see where the evening took them. Or she could drive straight to his home and they could get started right away. She had opted for the latter, her heart hammering in her chest as she pulled into the driveway, momentarily toying with the idea of driving right back home. But that was absurd. 

At the age of 5, William 'Bill' Scully Sr. tossed Dana into the deep end of a swimming pool. She taught herself to swim with a lungful of chlorine and a burn in the back of her throat, a strategy she tended to apply to rest of her life. Fuck easing into things. Gaining control of herself, she exhaled and headed for the door. She rang the doorbell and waited none too patiently, admiring the neatly groomed orange and red Zinnia aggressively blooming near the door in a last lusty exaltation before a long cold slumber.

It was several moments of torture before he answered. They stood awkwardly, struggling to meet each other’s gaze before he stumbled backwards, motioning for her to come in.

“How was the drive?” An obvious and half-hearted attempt to break the silence.  
  
The anticipation was burning her alive, a flash of carmine like those damned flowers outside. The definition of composed, he took her jacket and hung it for her on a hook by the door. If at any point he had looked her in the eyes, he could have convinced her that he was entirely unaffected. Instead he focused anywhere but. 

“Walter," she choked. "I can’t do this."  
  
“We don’t have to." A stack of mail on his counter currently had his undivided attention. He spoke not to her but to a Bed Bath and Beyond flyer. "I won’t hold it against you.”

“No. God, no. I can’t do … this,” she gestured at the air between them. Could he be so dense? “The polite conversation. The tiptoeing. Niceties and platitudes, dancing around the big leather-bound elephant in the room. It’s - can we just fucking _do_ it?” 

Thin-lipped, jaw set tight, he took his glasses and gingerly folded them, slipping them into his pocket. He took his time before he spoke, leaving her to wallow in the doubt that she had perhaps crossed a line. Gripping the counter, he sighed. She shifted nervously, waiting for a look that never came.

“Go upstairs to the guest room,” he commanded so tersely and professionally that she half-expected him to call her _Agent._ “Strip. There’s a robe for you if it makes you more comfortable. I’ll be there shortly.” 

Walter turned on his heel and left her standing downstairs alone, dumbstruck.  
  
Bambi-legged, she floated up the stairs and down the hall in a trance. Seeing him that way, she found herself once more the baby-faced agent intimidated by the wall of authority glaring at her from behind his desk. She thought of all those sunny afternoons in that office, the way she squirmed under his gaze. He would lean back in that chair with his chin in his hand, white-hot anger in his eyes behind a mask of stern displeasure. Now that mask might be peeled away.

The door closed behind her - she was through the looking glass now, nervous energy thrumming through her veins. It had never happened for her like this. Sex was always something spontaneous, where one thing led to another, carried away in the heat of the moment. With Mulder, like every other thing in their lives, it was frequently messy and unexpected. But to go intentionally divest herself of all of her clothing and wait alone had a clinical feeling that left her vulnerable. 

She folded her clothing neatly, mourning the time she had spent agonizing over what bra to wear. He wouldn’t even _see it._ A rich blanket of gooseflesh rippled across her arms in the chilly air. On the bed was the short-sleeved black silk robe. Without a tie it did not do much for her modesty, consistently hanging more open than she would have liked. Unsure of what he expected her to do at this point, she sat cross-legged atop the bed and tried to hold the robe closed as well as she could. The best response she could muster to his knock on the door was a very feeble “ _Come in_.” Seductress she was not.

He had changed into a long-sleeved black thermal and dark lounge pants. _Practical and villainous_ , she mused as he scrutinized her form. The experience of being nude in the presence of someone totally clothed was not one she found familiar and she clutched the robe tighter across her breasts.

“Stop trying to cover yourself. You don’t get to hide from me,” he rumbled. He had warned her that he would be different when they were like this. That he wouldn't act like her friend. Seeing it in action tickled her. As much as he wasn't acting like Walter-her-friend, has was absolutely acting like Assistant-Director-Skinner-her-boss. It wasn't often she was both amused _and_ horny. “I want you to stand. Here. Now.”

Once more into the breach then. Scraping together whatever confidence she could muster, she stood in front of him and hesitantly dropped her hands at to her sides and allowed the robe to fall open. His fingertips swept ever so lightly along her collarbone and under her breast, and then dragged down her side, settling on her hip and softly squeezing. He touched her with a holy reverence that captivated her. 

“Beautiful. You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” The kindness of the words themselves were a thin veneer over the threatening intensity behind them. He used the hand on her hip to turn her and guide her towards the bed.  
  
“Lay forward,” he ordered, pushing her downward so that her upper body rested on the bed while she remained standing. The position was lewd and due to her small stature, forced her to struggle on her toes to maintain it. “And answer me when I ask you a question.”  
  
“I thought it was … rhetorical." Her attempt at snark was short-lived as he slid the robe away, leaving her exposed to him. He dragged his thumb upward along her folds and she gasped in response.

 _“Rhetorical._ Ha. Stop trying to think so much." Pressing his thumb against her opening, he repeated his question. "Do you know you’re beautiful?”

Quite frankly, this was a lot to process and it left her dizzy, trying to angle herself backwards into the pressure of his touch. He remained consistently _just_ out of reach. It was the simplest and most exquisite torture she had ever experienced.

“Answer my question, _Dana._ ”  
  
“Yes," she panted. "I know I’m beautiful." As a reward he roughly pushed his thumb into her entirely, using the rest of his hand to grip her and put pressure on her clit. This was escalating faster than she had anticipated. Flagrantly exposed, the bare skin of her thighs rubbed against the fabric of his pants. Her fingertips scrabbled against the bed, trying to ground herself against the mounting sensations as he massaged her flesh.

“Have you came since I last saw you?”  
  
There was that one afternoon - lying on her bed as she fantasized about him pleasuring himself. She moaned a soft and ashamed _yes_ into the blanket.  
  
“I’m happy to hear it. You’re doing a great job.” He damn near crooned his praises. It was far more arousing than she would have liked. “I want us to try something.”  
  
He climbed on the bed and sat with his legs slightly apart, lounging against the pillows. He gestured at the space between his legs. “Come. Sit.”

Sitting in his lap? He couldn’t be serious.

She had imagined there would be blindfolds, rope, a paddle. Something. Not whatever _this_ was, that was for sure. Fitting easily between his muscled thighs, she leaned into him and attempted to relax. The steady rise and fall of his chest comforted her. His hand journeyed along her stomach at an agonizingly slow pace, coming to rest between her thighs and making feather-light circles with just his fingertips. His other draped heavily across her breasts, massaging her neck and toying with her hair. Slipping into a state of immense comfort, an eternity could pass like this and she genuinely wouldn’t mind.  
  
Of course he had to ruin it.

“That last time you came. I want you to tell me about it.”

Mortified, she froze. She had never discussed this sort of thing with any of her partners. True, in their electronic correspondence they had spoken frankly about the issue of self-pleasure, but that was before she _knew who he was._ It was different when it was impersonal. She struggled to find the words to begin. She didn’t know if she could.

“It’s okay. Relax.” The relentless circling of his fingers was making it hard to focus. He spoke with that same tone as before, a threat wrapped in kindness. Like an iron fist in a velvet glove. “You can go slowly. But I want you to tell me, Dana. I _need_ you to.”  
  
“Fine. I was alone," she relented. It seemed the only way out of this was through. "It was when I got home last week. After I left you.” It occurred to her that he must know she was alone. She wasn’t seeing anyone. Asking if she had orgasmed - it was a deliberate way of asking her about her masturbatory habits. She would be impressed by how clever he was if she wasn't so damned inconvenienced by it.  
  
“Good. Keep going.” His broad hand had taken to gripping most of her flesh at once, and she found herself involuntarily pressing against him, aching for a stronger touch. 

“I laid in my bed. And - I touched myself.” In response to her confession he slid his index finger into her cunt. She gasped.

“I want to be able to picture you. Were you wearing your clothes from when I saw you? Or were you nude?” Slowly, pulsing in and out. His breath was hot on her neck and his voice was a low growl in her ear. Between his relentless handiwork and the sensitive nature of her story, she was having a hard time maintaining focus on anything. 

“I was still dressed.” Two fingers now. The gravity of her predicament began to sink in as the hand on her shoulder tightened its grip. She couldn’t move if she wanted to. 

“What did you think about?” Just how much detail did he need? How did he expect her to speak coherently when he kept doing _that_ with his fingers?   
  
“ _You_.”

“And what was I doing to you?”

Should she lie? What if he found the truth uncomfortable? _Oh fuck it_. She couldn’t lie when he had her so distracted.

That was probably the point.

“You weren't doing anything to me. You see - it was,” she paused, determining just how vulgar to be. She settled for mere suggestion, hoping he wouldn’t press her further. “It was just you.” 

“Oh?" His hand stopped for a moment and his breath hitched. "And what was I doing alone? What was I doing that you felt so inclined to _fuck_ yourself to?”

The change was almost imperceptible but the implication was clear to her; he was genuinely caught off-guard by this revelation. It was the first moment in their entire time spent together that she felt she had the upper hand. So she took the opportunity and ran with it.

“You had just come back from a run. And you were laying on the couch,” she whispered, so far gone that she didn't care anymore how vulgar this was. “Your pants were pushed down a little and you were stroking yourself.” Not allowing her to best him, Walter forced a third finger inside of her. It filled her and she spread her legs further, draping them over his. He began to grind down on her with his palm. 

“Keep going. Was I being gentle or rough? What did I look like? What was I thinking about?” He curled his fingers upward in a calculated move, pressing that spot that made her feel like her body was on fire.

“You were - _oh god_ \- you were rough. You were so fucking rough with yourself, gritting your teeth, and I could hear the wet sounds your fist was making - _jesus._ ” It was so _damn hard_ to answer his questions when it felt like he was trying to kill her with his bare hands. Her sanity was fraying.

“Rough like this?” He held her tightly against him now as she bucked involuntarily, trying to get both closer and further away from the sensations. “What was I thinking about, when I was stroking my cock, Dana?”

“ _Me_ ,” she moaned, remembering how sweet her name sounded on his lips. “You were thinking about me.”  
  
“See? You know you’re beautiful,” he growled, holding his palm against her mouth. His hand hooked upward with a brutal intensity now. The only sounds in the room were the wetness of her cunt and her small, muffled cries. She couldn't remember ever feeling like this before.

“Stop trying to fight this,” he murmured in her ear, and she almost wept. “You need to let go. It’s ok, you can let go with me.”  
  
She felt herself slipping into total incoherence. For all her carefully constructed walls, here came Walter with a sledgehammer. Dana had always been a quiet, demure lover, a sharp contrast to the thoroughly foreign sounds she made now, obscenely grinding herself against him. Without warning, her orgasm descended upon her, hitting her hard and bright, and she jerked against his body.

She was spent. But he didn’t stop entirely, instead slowing his pace. He took the hand from her mouth and placed it on her breast, gently pinching at her painfully erect nipple.

“Good. _Good._ You’re so wonderful like this,” he practically purred.

Did he not realize she climaxed? Should she have announced it? She didn’t want to tell him how to do his job, but she felt suddenly extremely self-conscious.

“Walter, I - It worked,” she offered feebly. "You can stop now."

She should have guessed he wouldn’t listen. He began to unkindly circle her clit again. The contact was too much on her over-sensitive flesh and she hissed through her teeth. Still, he continued.

“Do you really want me to stop? Or do you just _think_ you want me to stop?”

Her legs trembled and he hooked one of his own back over her calf.  
  
“It would be such a shame really, to go to all this trouble and to get such a wonderful story from you, Dana,” he whispered now, low and threatening. “For you to only come _once._ ”

They had discussed frequently the importance of total consent, and she knew that at any moment she could ask him to stop and without a hint of judgment he would comply. As over-sensitive as she was, this feeling of total physical helplessness against him was intoxicating. He was right. She only _thought_ she wanted him to stop.   
  
A white-hot pleasure/pain exploded as he quickly and deftly slapped his hand against her sex. She wrestled from him and he held her back down. 

“Stop trying to control this, Dana. You’re safe with me. _Let._ _Go_.”

Embarrassment, fear, anxiety - all of them left her body and all that remained was this moment, his body with hers. He made furious unkind circles with the flat of his palm and she began to let her body spasm however it wanted to. If she made noises she wasn’t aware of them. A second orgasm ripped through her when he slapped her again. 

She was weak - gasping and teary eyed. He gripped her with his whole body and lithely rolled her onto her back, crouching over her with his legs inside of hers, splaying her open. There was no escape. Every inch of her vision, every sound in the room was wholly Walter. The change of position gave him more momentum to his strokes, allowing him to use the full force of his shoulders. He had four fingers in her now and she really thought she might die. The way she felt now - she wouldn't even mind. What a way to go. 

“Look at me. _Look_ at me. If you got to watch me cum in your head, then I get to watch you now,” he barked at her, all sharp edges to cut through the fog. “You’re so fucking incredible, Dana. I want to see you fall apart. _Now_.”

And fall apart she did. All that existed in that moment were his dark eyes boring into hers. It was a moment of pure ecstasy and the intensity frightened her.

And then she came down. She felt detached, out-of-body, and suddenly _very_ sore. He gingerly removed his hand from her cunt. Her thighs and the bed sheets were soaked but she was far too tired to feel any embarrassment about it. He lightly stroked her sides and it tickled her, eliciting that big ridiculous laugh she usually hid. He briefly smiled in surprise before the mask descended and he was serious, detached Walter again. Understandable. There were things that needed to be dealt with.

“I’m going to go turn the shower on for you.” He reached for the nightstand and grabbed a glass of water, lowering it to her lips. “Drink. You need it.”  
  
She pulled herself up on shaky arms and began to drink. She didn’t realize just how dry her mouth was. The water felt incredible and she slurped greedily. He waited until she drained half the glass before setting it back down. He left her side only for a moment to go into the adjoining bathroom and upon hearing the familiar hiss of the shower, he returned with a towel and two ibuprofen in his fist.

“Trust me, you’re going to be sore. You went through a lot.”

She grimaced as she swallowed. Her shoulders were already starting to ache.

“What now? How does this usually work?” she wondered aloud.

He looked at her, eyebrow cocked mischievously.  
  
“Have you ever seen _Jaws_?”


	5. Show Me The Way To Go Home

She liked the way the pad thai made her lips tingle. Balance was key here - not so spicy as to outright burn, but with just enough capsaicin to make her mouth feel alive. In that respect it was perfect. There was also a situational element, an atmosphere that made the food truly sing. The best take-out is eaten on the couch, in good company, listening to the rain. And all of those boxes were ticked.

The carnage of their delivered feast littered the coffee table. They sat in a state of detente, each quarantining themselves to one side of the sofa, a neutral zone of cushion between them neither had dared to let an errant toe cross. Her knees sat tucked into her chest with her feet secured beneath, a paper pint of noodles cradled in her chest. Exhausted to the bone, she found herself incapable of much more than quiet chewing. They didn’t talk much - both were very content to let Chief Brody and the denizens of Amity Island on the television fill the conversational void. Several bands of rain lazily rolled in over the course of the evening, providing a blanket of white noise.  
  
She didn’t realize just how truly drained she was until she began to eat, thankful for Walter’s foresight. It was amazing really, just how much care he exhibited towards her. He made sure she was hydrated, showered, comfortable, and fed. It hadn’t occurred to her just how much work went into being the dominant one - like Walter had taken on a certain responsibility towards her.  
  
“ _You've got city boy hands, Hooper. You been countin' money all your life,_ ” Quint said, from his television land of sun-faded beaches and salt air.

Obscured by the dark of the living room, she turned to watch him. Partially illuminated by the television, he was a shadowy chiaroscuro of time worn and hardened features. One hand cradled his jaw, the other absentmindedly stroked Estraven, curled in his lap. His were not the soft hands of a city boy, but were calloused and strong. Hands that were well-used, no strangers to blood or gunpowder.

She thought of Mulder’s hands - kind hands that would hesitate to hurt, that lingered and caressed and sought reassurance. They were always those of the supplicant, touching her like she was some priceless artifact. Did he fear that if he held her too long or too hard that she would turn to stardust in his hands, like so much in his life? 

Men had a tendency to treat her as some slight fragile thing - Dana had always hated it. Walter didn’t seem to think she would break. At least, not the way he had touched her earlier.  
  
“What are you thinking about?” He must have felt the way she was looking at him. “Are you doing alright?”

“Honestly? I was thinking about how refreshing it is to not have someone treat me like I’m made of glass,” she confessed.  
  
“Glass? God no.” A slight smile ghosted across his lips. “They should make tanks out of whatever it is you’re made of. Really. You might be the strongest person I’ve ever known. Hell, you were able to intimidate _me_ sometimes.”  
  
She laughed at the idea, an attempt at deflection. The compliments he paid her affected her deeply. It was weird how vulnerable she could still feel around him.   
  
“No kidding?”  
  
“Seriously. To be on the receiving end of that Scully stare? The thought chills me. Five feet of hellfire when you wanted to be.” 

Was he flirting with her? She couldn’t tell.  
  
“Really though, Dana. You’re okay?” His tone softened, the playful mirth receding from his voice to be replaced with genuine concern. “We haven’t really talked about what happened. I feel like I should check in with you.”

She stared at the ceiling for a moment collecting her thoughts. This, like everything with him so far, was uncharted territory. Historically her partners hadn’t felt compelled to unpack their sexual encounters. They simply happened and were not discussed.  
  
“Everything felt very good,” she offered, with no clear idea what exactly he was looking for. He didn’t seem the type to need verbal reassurance. “You’re um, good at what you do. I don’t think you need me to tell you that.”  
  
“Thank you, but I’m not looking for a performance review. How do you _feel_?”  
  
“Hm. I feel … empty, I guess?” She struggled to find the words for what, exactly, she was feeling. None of them seemed to be quite what she wanted. “Empty in a pleasant way. I feel refreshed. Like I’ve been washed out or cleansed. The way I feel after a good cry.”  
  
“Good. _Good._ That’s the sort of thing I would hope for,” he said, genuinely happy for her. “If anything _ever_ makes you feel uncomfortable, please do not hesitate to tell me. Promise me that.”  
  
Thunder cracked wildly, drowning out her quiet response. The rain was solid now, a driving downpour that rattled the windows and the lights briefly flickered. She let her eyes wander back to the film, where their woefully little boat bobbed in the Atlantic.  
  
“ _I got that beat. I got that beat_ ,” Hooper said, and he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a winding red scar on his forearm. There were no sounds in the living room except the ever-present rain, their breathing, and the creak of the light on the boat as it swung with the waves. “ _Moray eel. Bit right through my wetsuit._ ”  
  
She’s seen the film a hundred times over. Quint will then show him his damaged bicep and Hooper will respond with a nasty bull shark scrape on his calf. Back and forth, the men will bond over their mutual little brushes with mortality until Quint tells them of the story of the USS Indianapolis. _Eleven hundred men went into the water. Three hundred and sixteen come out. Sharks took the rest._ She has seen the film a hundred times over, yes, but she has also lived this moment again and _again._ _  
__  
_Something about her life was being revealed to her, mirrored by these men, and with a heavy heart she realized exactly what it is. It also occurred to her that now might be the only appropriate time to broach the subject.  
  
“Walter - I need to tell you the truth about something. I - we need to talk about Mulder.” He recoiled slightly at the name. “I owe you that. If we’re going to go any farther with this.” 

Sensing the shift in mood, Estraven hopped down and dashed for somewhere else, a fluffy black ball of discontent.  
  
“I told you it was domestic and mundane, our reasons for - well, I guess _my_ reasons for leaving. It was too much like this,” she gestured at the men on the boat. She had to fight to keep her voice from breaking. “We were constantly comparing scars. Every time I looked at him I saw not just the good moments but every single battle, every single pain. It was like pressure on a bruise. A scar on his shoulder or a look in his eyes and I would see the son I lost - I would smell hospital rooms and gunfire - we just never could move on, not really. Even my most cherished memories of our time together were usually book-ended by terrible circumstances.  
  
“I loved him, deeply. And, in all honesty, I probably always will. But that love was born of shared trauma. A garden in which nothing could grow but sickly weeds. He was never the same after his abduction. Honestly, he wasn't the same after he learned the truth about his sister. The confirmation of her death just extinguished something within him. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t _anyone’s_ fault really. Any home we lived in felt like that stale basement office. Anywhere we went a thousand ghosts haunted us. Our fathers, our sisters, _Emily._ All the ones we couldn’t save. The litany of those we lost in our relentless pursuit of some truth. I wanted to move on - I _need to._ ”  
  
She felt so small and mean and wrong. Often she wondered if leaving had been the ultimate cowardice, if she should have stayed and fought. But she was so _tired_ of fighting. Would he hate her for this the way she sometimes hated herself? Fear of judgment kept her from looking him in the eyes.  
  
“And you think I can provide that for you?” He ventured, quietly.  
  
A much louder rumble of thunder, almost right on top of them, and then total darkness. The power had gone out on the whole block judging from the lack of light outside.  
  
“Shit. I have some candles in the closet - hold on,” Using his phone as a flashlight, he left the room. She was grateful for the opportunity for solitary reflection. Every nerve felt exposed and raw. How was he able to constantly extract so much from her without revealing anything about himself? She thought of their encounter earlier, her body laying snug against his - she realized she didn’t even know if he was hard.

It scared her, the idea that she was possibly more invested in this than he was. This man that she kept opening up to - she was beginning to wonder if she even knew him at all. She heard him lumbering in the dark of the living room and again found the courage to steer the conversation to the difficult places it needed to go.

“Walter, do you feel like you know me?” Her voice cracked slightly. She had intended to sound more confident than the squeak that came out. 

He began to place candles in various places in the room, lighting them as he went. “What do you mean?”   
  
“I mean,” she sighed, unsure how to proceed. “Do you actually _know_ anything about me? Beyond our initial messages, when we didn’t know who we were. Beyond the sexual inclinations you’ve quantified and cataloged. Beyond anything you’ve read in a debriefing. If it came in a manila folder it doesn’t count.”  
  
Quiet, in the darkness, and then he spoke.  
  
“I think I do. I mean, as humans, we all have our images of each other.” Satisfied with the amount of lit candles, he sat on the rug, leaning his back against the sofa. It brought his shoulders within several inches of her feet and she was acutely aware of how easy it would be to touch him. “I don’t know if I know accurately, truly, who you are. To assume so would be vain and dumb. But I have my _idea_ of who you are. A Dana Scully that I have made in composite, of snippets of narrative, of moments and flashes of insight. Why? Do you feel like you know me?”

“No. No, I think I’m finding that I don’t know you at all.”

“Is that a problem?” He looked up at her in earnest.  
  
“No,” she chewed her lip for a moment. She didn’t want to offend him. “Frankly, I think it’s quite the opposite. It’s - refreshing. To be able to actually go through the motions of _learning_ a person. To discover for yourself - to assemble that composite that you spoke of.”

“And what is this composite you’re forming of me? What does that image seem like to you, Dana?”  
  
Again, she had attempted to pull him out of his shell. And again, he had managed to turn the conversation right back to her.

“Truthfully?”  
  
“I would hope so.”  
  
If he wanted candor, that’s what he was going to get.

“You’re a man of great self-discipline, but that self-discipline is an attempt to bring order to a disordered world. You consistently ally yourself with organizations you believe in, that you think are a force for good, and are time and again proven wrong. I don’t know why - I don’t know what exactly in your past did this to you - but you want desperately to protect those you feel need protecting. You are a man with a body built for violence and conflict but ultimately want to use that natural ability for good. You want to be a soldier and to fight for those who can’t - but none of the people in charge want the same thing you do.” She was rambling now, and feared she had gone too far. He sat silently for a moment before responding.  
  
“As much of that rings true, it also sounds like you’re projecting. You, too, are a person of self-discipline. I’m sure that’s in response to the chaos around you. You chose to become a doctor, to help people. And then you left that career to join the FBI, again trying to help people,” he mused. “Maybe the reason I feel like I know you is because of how much you remind me of myself.”  
  
This weighed heavily on her and was something that she had never considered. He wasn’t wrong, not at all. The similarities were striking. She had always been entranced by men who were her opposite - inappropriate, reckless men. Here was a man who could possibly understand her on a level they never had.  
  
“How do you do that?” Her tone bordered on accusatory.  
  
“How do I do _what,_ exactly?” He wondered up at her from the floor. The candlelight, the rain, his position below her - she was suddenly reminded of that first motel room with Mulder so long ago. They had both been so young and yet he was already so broken. The dissonance overwhelmed her and she had to join him on the floor to rid herself of the image. She slid down next to him, crossing her legs, and leaned her head into his shoulder. He stiffened at the contact, relaxing after a moment.

“You have this way of constantly getting the upper hand, of turning this back around to me. I try to learn something, anything about you and you manage to turn it into a psych profile of _me_ instead. It’s baffling.”  
  
“Alright, fine. You want to know something about me? Something I’ve never told you?” He paused, leaning to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. “My middle name … is _Sergei._ ”  
  
The confession caught her by surprise and she cackled loudly with laughter. Playfully, she punched him in the shoulder. “Thank you for deigning to share such a dark secret, Walter. I’m touched.”  
  
They sat quietly, smiling at each other, and for a moment she thought about leaning in just that extra inch and letting her lips press against his. The spell was broken by another flash of lightning and a deep rumble of thunder. A serious thought crossed his face.  
  
“Earlier. You mentioned someone. Someone you lost. _Emily_. Who was that?”

The room felt suddenly much too cold and she began to retreat inside herself. It was her turn now to put up walls. The thought of her daughter was one she did not return to frequently.  
  
“She was my daughter. Technically.” His hand reached for hers and lightly clasped it.  
  
“Technically?” He prodded gently.

“I don’t know just how much you’ve read, just how much you’ve learned about me and my abduction in those files. How much you remember from the pregnancy and all that ensued. But when I was … taken, they experimented on me. Not only did they place that chip in my neck, but they took all of my ova. I’ve been infertile since. My pregnancy was … unexpected and a scientific impossibility. I'm sure you at least recall that much.”  
  
Calling it a miracle would have been incorrect. It too was part of the series of sinister machinations bestowed upon her body and soul from the moment Duane Barry locked her in his trunk.

“The Christmas after my illness, I found a young girl. Emily.” Images swam past her eyes, of that cherubic blonde face and the hope that it had given her. She had just survived the greatest trial of her life and had briefly allowed herself to hope for some semblance of normalcy, clinging to the idea of motherhood only to have it ripped from her hands. “DNA testing proved conclusively that she had been created from my ova, to be used in a series of genetic experiments. 

“She was very ill, and within a few days of meeting her, she passed. I had actually intended to adopt her.” 

It was the abbreviated version of the tale, true. But she did not have the strength to go through it again. To describe how close she had come to saving her, and to tell him how deliberate and pointless her death had been. That she was born into the earth to only know pain, and to serve some foolish larger purpose. She had almost expected to cry while she told him. Instead she felt detached and cold. 

He squeezed her hand. “I had no idea, Dana. I’m so sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay. I mean - it isn’t _okay._ But it’s just one of many scars.”  
  
The rain was starting to let up, no longer the deluge it was, softening back into gentle drops.  
  
“I thought we said we weren’t going to talk about those,” he countered.

“Maybe that’s all there _is_ to talk about. At least for people like us.”

“If we’re showing scars, I’d like to include one of my own.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a network of faded light purple and blue streaks along the blood vessels of his upper arm. They looked almost like varicose veins, but crueler and more intentional. She instinctively traced her finger along them.  
  
“A gift. From Alex Krycek.” 

The weaponized nanotechnology had wreaked havoc on his body, apparently doing lasting damage. But why bring it up now? He was trying to tell her something - people do not show their scars to show the extent of an injury, but rather to tell a story. And what was the story of the indigo web on his flesh?  
  
A sudden, vivid recollection filled her mind - Walter laid out on the sofa in his office, wincing as she examined the strange bruise forming on his ribs. The way he tried to act confident, all the while his eyes betraying the sense of mortal peril overtaking him. That was the most human she had ever seen him.  
  
“Some of our scars remind us of what we hold dear. Of those we have saved and those that have saved us along the way.”  
  
He must have meant her. It was her treatment that had helped to prolong his life at the time. But she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that somehow he was alluding to something else.  
  
With a click and a hum, the power returned. The television turned back on, the new light filling the room made her aware of how close they had been sitting, and she felt guilty. Shifting her weight, she also became acutely aware of just how sore she was and groaned.  
  
“Sitting like this must be killing you,” he gave her a quick once over. “You look exhausted. Come on, I’ll walk you upstairs. I changed the sheets while you were in the shower.”  
  
He stood, extending his hand to her, and deftly helped her onto her feet. The closeness was gone, both of them retreating into the fortresses they had spent years constructing.  
  
She would wonder that night, between the sheets, what it would feel like to have him there with her.  
  
She hoped he wondered the same thing.


	6. Tango Till They're Sore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW this chapter for discussion of trauma and assault, both physical and implied sexual.

**6:35 PM**  
  
Drenched in sweat, her breath came to her in ragged gasps. His hand forcefully gripped her thigh, bruising her with his fingertips. Her hips tilted up as he shoved her right leg forward, then wrestled it over his shoulder to give his mouth better access to her flesh. The sensations were far too much - the way the damp sheets clung to her as she attempted to wriggle away, his hot breath in the crease of her thighs, teeth nipping and dragging against her sensitive skin.  
  
Instinctively, she tried to pull her left leg towards her to compensate, to somehow get away from all of these _feelings_ but it was no use. The strap below her jerked taught and held firm, her ankle futilely straining against the fabric-lined cuff that held it. Her arms, restrained above her much the same way, were equally useless.  
  
“ _Fuck_ you, you fucking _bastard_ ,” she cried - he had told her to fight and she didn’t intend on stopping.  
  


**12:35 AM**

Sleep came to her only in useless and unfulfilling fits and starts. The clock on the nightstand mocked her with its constant declaration of the hours she was losing - 12:35. 12:55. 1:17. Onward and upward.  
  
Tossing and turning for hours, the conversation they had that evening weighed heavily upon her. It gnawed at her - this fear that somehow they were too damaged, that this would end the way things had with Mulder. How many degrees of separation from the basement office did her prospective partners need to be? Was it too risky to let herself become attached to someone who had worked in the building? In the city? How far out did she have to go to find any sort of solace? What was the statute of limitations on heartbreak?  
  
And for that matter, was he even growing attached to her? Theirs was a strange form of intimacy - he had watched her come but she had never felt his lips on hers. She knew him and yet she didn’t. There was a time, that dark period where Mulder was dead/alive/gone, where they had clung to each other for some semblance of sanity. She had come to him once, in the night, so full of fear and certainty that they would find her partner dead. And he had stood with her alone, looking at the stars until she felt she could breathe again.  
  
But that closeness evaporated when Mulder returned. She hadn’t really even considered it since. 

Her train of thought was interrupted by a soft thud at the door.  
  
Another thud, followed by a tiny holler.  
  
More thudding, more insistent _meows_.  
  
 _Fucking Estraven_.  
  
Opening the door, she was greeted by yet another loud insistent meow. She looked down - the cat darted down the hall upon being seen. Estraven began to meow in the same way at another door.  
  
 **Thud**. **Thud**. _Meow_. **Thud**.  
  
 _This_ is why she didn’t own a cat.  
  
Hazarding a guess that the room Estraven was so intent upon entering was Walter’s, she glanced over her shoulder at the clock on her nightstand. 1:45 AM. Terrible. Maybe he wouldn't even be awake at all.  
  
Briefly, she wondered if the worn old t-shirt she slept in covered her enough. Should she perhaps throw on that black robe? Ultimately she decided against it - he had seen enough of her that modesty was perhaps a foregone conclusion. Padding gently down the hall, her bare feet made little noise against the hardwood. The house was dead silent and a bit drafty. She braced her arms across her chest to provide the illusion of warmth, if nothing else.  
  
The little black demon collided against her shin, rubbing his body on her in an attempt to communicate. His intent was clear - he wanted in that bedroom and needed her height and opposable thumbs to achieve his goal.  
  
Dana paused before knocking. It was late, and the idea of waking him because of the _cat_ felt absolutely foolish and inconsiderate. But he wasn’t going to leave her alone either. Determined little shit.  
  
She settled on knocking half-assedly, hoping that he would sleep through it, there would be no answer, and that she could turn and go back to bed.  
  
Three soft short taps.  
  
Silence.  
  
She looked down and stuck her tongue out at the cat, who indignantly yowled at her in turn.  
  
 _Fine_. She couldn’t believe she was letting a cat dictate her moves now.  
  
Three more tiny taps. Silence. She turned on her heel, satisfied that she had done all she could. The cat would just have to deal with it.  
  
“Dana?” he called blearily from behind the door. _Shit._ Hopefully he at least _believed_ her about the cat. How embarrassing, if he thought that she couldn’t sleep and came to wake him up - because she was what, lonely? Sad? _Christ._ “Come in.”  
  
Her dreams of going back to bed now firmly dashed, she opened the door. This room was much more personal than the guest bedroom. The furniture was all warm, dark wood tones, the bedding in greens and browns. More bookshelves here, with several ivy plants sprawling along them. The effect was masculine yet welcoming, similar to the man who occupied it.  
  
He sat shirtless in bed reading a large hardback book she couldn’t quite make out from where she was. It is an intimate act, seeing someone in our lives in the room where they sleep. She felt very much like she shouldn’t be there at all.  
  
Estraven darted between her legs and in a self-satisfied frenzy, dive-bombed onto the bed, throwing himself against Walter’s legs contentedly.  
  
“Did he put you up to this?” He let out a long-suffering sigh, removing his glasses and placing them on the nightstand.  
  
“He was extremely persuasive,” she admitted. Unsure of what to do with herself, she tried to lean casually against the door frame, crossing her arms. Hoping to project an air of confidence, she probably looked more like she was trying to vanish.  
  
“He knows he isn’t supposed to sleep in here,” his tone was paternal and warm, undermining his attempt at reproach. “Doesn't stop him from trying. I hope he didn’t wake you.” 

“He lucked out. Honestly. I was having trouble falling asleep to begin with,” she looked down at the floor, self-consciously shuffling her feet. “I should probably leave you then.”  
  
“No, it’s ok,” he gestured at the face-down book. “As you can see, I couldn’t sleep either.”  
  
“What’s _Shibari?"_ A wide black book with red writing on the cover, she had to squint to read the upside down print. "If you don’t mind me asking.”  
  
“I don’t mind." Shifting over, he patted the space next to him. “Here, I’ll show you.”  
  
Climbing onto the bed, she sat cross-legged next to him and he placed the open book into her lap. Looking at the images before her, her breath caught in her throat.  
  
“Shibari is the Japanese art of rope bondage.”  
  
The book was full of glossy full-page photographs. The page currently turned to displayed a topless woman, bound in an intricate pattern of red rope. In two places, the rope hoisted her upward, keeping her precariously balanced on her toes. All across her exposed flesh were deliberately-placed crimson lines. It was a startling image - immediately she was struck by the artistry of it, how long it must have taken to achieve such a beautiful result.  
  
Dana had no idea that something as simple as rope bondage could _look_ like this.  
  
“Have you done this before?” She asked breathlessly.  
  
“To an extent. Irene was truly the expert, I just dabbled in some of the simpler forms. Here,” he flipped to a new image, a black and white photo of two arms bound at the wrist. The rope was wrapped many times around each arm forming a beautiful serpentine pattern between them. “Things like this.”  
  
“I’m amazed," she confessed. "I had always thought of bondage as a means to an end, as something … practical. Never as an art form.”  
  
He smiled to himself, seemingly pleased by her line of thinking.  
  
“Shibari is as much about the journey as it is the destination. The act of being bound, of creating these shapes and forms, should be just as pleasurable as the end result. It’s a conversation - a back and forth between the rigger and the submissive. A truly talented rigger can make the rope speak for them.”  
  
Turning to the next page, a yellow-faded polaroid slipped into her lap.  
  
A massive well-muscled male form was shown kneeling, resting his weight on his heels, his arms behind him bound together at the wrists. The rope made a diamond across his back, darting from his wrists to his upper arms and over his powerful shoulders.  
  
“ _Shit_. I forgot that was in there.”  
  
She looked from the photograph to him, then back again, her synapses taking a moment to make the connection.  
  
“Oh my g _od_ , is this you?" A faint flush spread across his cheeks, confirming her statement. "I’m sorry, I feel like I’m prying.”  
  
“It’s okay. I should’ve kept it somewhere safer." He seemed slightly embarrassed, but no more than that. She relaxed. "Although, to be fair, I didn’t think anyone would ever be in my house looking through my book on Japanese erotic rope-tying. But here we are.” At least he was good-humored about it.  
  
“And yes, to answer your question conclusively. It is me. Irene wanted to put together a photo portfolio of her work for potential clients. She had a hard time finding men to photograph, so I volunteered. Under the condition that my face wasn’t shown, of course. It was pretty risky of me, looking back at it - if that photo ever got back to anyone at the bureau. I mean, this was the nineties. People still thought that BDSM was somehow tied to pedophilia, satanic ritual abuse, all kinds of nonsense.”  
  
She stared at the image. The idea of him bound, his hulking powerful body rendered so powerless, did things to her she had never considered. She imagined him kneeling before her, taking her hand beneath his chin and lifting his face upward, the helpless and enraptured look on his face - 

“Dana? I’ve lost you haven’t I?”  
  
 _Shit_.   
  
“I’m sorry," she shook her head, trying to regain a shred of composure. "I just hadn’t really thought about- “  
  
“Stop. It’s fine.” Smiling, he returned his attention back to the book, flipping to another full-page shot, this time of a woman in a wholly improbable asymmetrical suspension. “I’m flattered actually, that my form is apparently so striking to you.”  
  
Allowing her eyes to roam from the photograph to his bare chest, she glanced down along his arms, imagining those same arms holding her tightly as they dragged a thin rope across her skin. Minutes turning into hours, the increased pressure and release on various parts of her body their only communication. She must be blushing.  
  
“Are you,” she cleared her throat, “are you thinking about doing that to me?”  
  
“ _Thinking_ about it? Yes," he spoke quietly, seemingly just as distracted as she was. "But realistically, absolutely not. I’m not practiced enough, and we’re certainly not practiced enough together. This is something you aspire to after a good deal of work together.”  
  
 _Oh._ She felt a little deflated. But he was at least thinking about her, and that alone was thrilling.

“You had indicated that bondage was a ‘maybe’. Do you still feel that way? I'd like to start with something simple.”  
  
“I’m. Um," she chewed on the inside of her cheek, full of nervous excitement. "Thinking more towards a yes, actually.”  
  
If she had realized then what a disaster their first attempt would turn out to be, she would have run for the hills. Hindsight being 20/20 and all that.   
  
**3:43 PM**  
  
She knelt before him on the bed, nude, her wrists bound gently behind her in a simple handcuff knot of thin cord. Equal parts nervous excitement and tentative arousal, she trusted in him completely as he gently fitted the blindfold over her eyes. In this new total darkness, she focused on the sounds of their breathing and waited.  
  
He stroked the side of her face and she leaned into the touch of his hand, thankful for the contact. Both the lack of sight and inability to touch him back magnified the sensation. All there was in this moment was the feel of his large calloused palm against her cheek.  
  
Painstakingly slowly, he dragged his thumb across her lip, which trembled in response.  
  
" _You’re such a pretty girl_."   
  
That’s where it all went sideways.

Dana knew in her rational mind that he had said “pretty girl.” But the parts of our brain where we store all of our fear aren't governed by rational thought. Instead, she latched onto the sensation of her arms behind her back and was transported to a dank closet, stale smelling coats above her. She remembered in stark detail the rag in her mouth and the way the binding on her wrists chafed. She remembered the sick terror that gripped her, the way she had shivered as Donnie Pfaster leaned over her, stroking her face. _Girly girl,_ he crooned, and her gut churned.  
  
Panic held her in its jaws and she couldn’t find the ability to speak, only able to violently shake her head. She licked her lips, swallowing hard, and groped around in her mind for her safeword. She needed to stop this - stop this _right now_ before he put her in that fucking bathtub like all the other girls, all the pretty girls ...   
  
“ _Bureau,”_ she finally blurted, and instantaneously Walter grasped the gravity of the situation. _What a stupid fucking safeword_ , she thought in-between waves of nausea, _but at least it works_.  
  
“Dana?”

The closet was a long dark tunnel and his voice came to her faintly from the other end. _Hurry please, somebody, anybody_. Any second now Pfaster would be asking her about her hair texture and examining her nails for breaks. How did she let him get to her twice? How could she be so fucking careless and weak? The back of her throat tasted like bile.  
  
“I’m right here, Dana. I’m going to take the blindfold off now.”

She kept her eyes screwed tightly shut, afraid that if she opened them _he_ would be there. He couldn’t be - not again - she _killed_ that son of a bitch -  
  
“Shhh. It’s ok. I’m right here. I’m going to untie you, but I need you to stay still while I do so you don’t hurt yourself.”  
  
She tried to focus on the feeling of the rope loosening, anything to bring her out of it. Gingerly he brought her freed wrists in front of her and into her lap, massaging the insides with his thumbs. His touch was a lifeline back into her present reality.   
  
“Dana? I need you to talk to me.”  
  
The surging tide of panic finally ebbed. Opening her eyes, she was struck by the sheer magnitude of concern in his gaze.

All at once she fell face-first into his chest and started to weep.  
  
He sat stunned for a moment before reacting, tightly clasping her against him. His other hand cradled her head, burying his fingers into her hair. It was impossible to ignore how comforting his touch was. She hated this - feeling out of control. Normally she shied from such grand displays of emotion. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she cried, the sound muffled by his torso.  
  
“It’s ok. I’m here. You’re safe, Dana. It’s ok.”  
  
They sat like that for some time until she began to knit back together. The sobs grew further apart and she stiffened, becoming acutely aware of the fact that she was not only crying but was also completely naked. She started to feel ridiculous.  
  
Which was better than terrified, but not by much.  
  
“I’m going to get up for a minute, to cover you up and grab you a glass of water, okay?”  
  
She nodded feebly. He grabbed a large, well-worn quilt from a nearby chair and draped it over her shoulders, dwarfing her. A glass of water from the bathroom was next.  
  
“Drink first. Then tell me what’s wrong.” He sat at the end of the bed facing her. Just far enough so as not to crowd her but close enough to be reached. “Tell me where you went.”  
  
She gulped half of the glass down at once. _Get a hold of yourself, Dana._  
  
“I’m sorry - “  
  
“Stop apologizing.” Not a command this time, but more of a plea. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Breathe. Take your time.”  
  
Where to begin?  
  
“Do you remember the Pfaster case?” she offered.  
  
Placing his face in his hands, he closed his eyes and sighed. Why would she even ask? Of course he knew about the fucking Pfaster case. Who wouldn’t remember one of their agents getting kidnapped and almost brutalized by a death fetishist not once, but _twice_?   
  
“Shit, Dana. I’m so sorry," he began to apologize profusely, assuming responsibility for the trauma he inadvertently made her confront. Of course he would shoulder that burden. "It didn’t even occur to me - I never should have - “  
  
“No. It’s not your fault. I consented to this.” She couldn’t help but blame herself. It was foolish of her to think that she could let someone tie her up. Like it wouldn’t cause residual flashbacks to all of the various and sundry kidnappings she had experienced over the years. "It should have occurred to _me."_  
  
And god, there were just so _many_ instances weren't there? How many times had she been tied up, knocked out, or worse? She had lost count of the sheer volume of assaults and violations, from the mundane to the extraordinary. She thought of the phantom man who had tried to rip her beating heart from her chest and of the foul stench of Duane Barry's trunk. She thought of the frigid tank in Antarctica, and of waking up drugged in new pajamas, the Cigarette Smoking Man looming. But most of all she thought of Donald Pfaster, evil personified.  
  
The first time he had taken her she was young and fresh in the field. She had felt only helplessness, consumed by terror. But to take her again? There was terror then, yes. But more than that - righteous fury. She had done too much and come too far to let the fucking devil take her then.  
  
She would never forget the crack of the gunshots - the shattering of glass, the look on Mulder’s face, the rank odor of the gun-smoke.  
  
Most importantly she would never forget how it felt to watch Donnie’s corpse crumple in a heap on her living room floor.  
  
It felt _right._  
  
“I killed him, you know.”

Her confession was barely a whisper. Obviously he didn’t _quite_ get it - didn’t see the magnitude of what she was trying to convey. Her stomach turned with the pity in his eyes.  
  
“I know. I read the report, it was a clean shoot.”   
  
“No.” _Please stop trying to comfort me._ The words she wanted were frustratingly elusive. “You don’t understand.”  
  
“Then make me understand, Dana," he implored, prodding ever so gently.   
  
“It wasn’t a clean shot. Not at all. Mulder hadhim,” she shuddered at the memory. Crawling under her bed through broken glass, wrestling her hands from their binding, all the while listening to the drone of the bathtub faucet. “By the time I had freed myself and found my weapon - Mulder _had him at gunpoint._  
  
“I should have been cuffing him. I should have been reading him his rights. But I didn’t. I _killed_ him. I was lucid and fully-aware when I walked up to that man and I shot him dead. It wasn’t self-defense. It was an execution.”

This should have been a revelation. Dana Scully, for all her faith and human kindness, platitudes and gold cross on her breastbone, was a murderer. She wanted him to recoil, she wanted shock and revulsion. 

Instead, he simply held her hands.  
  
“Did Mulder ever tell you what _exactly_ happened to Alex Krycek?” He asked quietly, pretending to examine the way her hands fit so completely inside his.   
  
The question seemed to spring from nowhere. What did Alex Krycek have to do with any of this?  
  
“I’m not sure I ever found out the specifics,” she confessed, wracking her brain for details of his eventual demise - and realized that she actually wasn’t quite sure what happened after all. He died, in some confrontation between Mulder, Walter and himself. But that was all she knew. “I know he threatened Mulder and me and my son, and that he was shot. But that’s all.”  
  
His brows knit in consternation, his lips wore a thin sneer.  
  
“That’s not all. Dana - I killed him. I shot him in the arm first - he dropped his weapon. Then I shot him in the shoulder, at which point he went to the ground. I could have stopped. I should have stopped. Mulder and I could have taken him into custody. I’m not sure if it would have done any good - most likely he would have been tossed in a very deep hole somewhere and never been tried.  
  
“Reason and regulation and basic human decency dictated that I stop there. But that’s not what I did. I need you to know, right now, that I advanced on him. He was disarmed and incapacitated - and I looked him the eyes and I shot him in the fucking head.”  
  
This was the most vulnerable she had ever seen him. He was laying himself bare in front of her. She had no idea how to respond, trying to communicate through the gentle strokes of her fingertips along his forearms.  
  
“I can’t imagine what Donnie Pfaster did to you - how you felt, faced with something so uniquely vile. But I can tell you that I understand your choice and that I don’t judge you for it.  
  
“Alex Krycek controlled me for so long, in so many ways. He took away my autonomy and threatened me _every single day._ Made me do things I would never do - made me do things that would hurt _you_ \- you and Agent Mulder.”  
  
When he mentioned having to hurt her, his features contorted with sorrow and disgust. She never realized the guilt that he carried.  
  
“He was a dog - and he deserved to die like one. I can’t pretend that I feel totally at peace - who are we to decide who lives and dies? But at the same time - I can’t pretend I would ever do it any differently.”  
  
“What do we do now?” She was cold and her nudity felt inappropriate, even with the blanket covering her.  
  
“We need to get out of this room - probably out of this house. How about we go for a run?”  
  
 **5:15 PM**  
  
Every breath burned a little and there was some goddawful stitch forming in her side. She wasn’t out of shape per se- but definitely wasn’t operating at peak performance either. The pace he set was punishing enough - it didn’t help that she had to take two steps for every one of his.  
  
Discomfort aside, she had to admit to herself that the run was exactly what they needed. It was dusk now, the air growing cool and enticingly brisk. The feel of it against her skin combined with the heat of the physical exertion was enough to clear her mind of their earlier misstep.  
  
At the next corner they stopped in the guise of letting a car pass. Really, they were both just more exhausted than either would admit.  
  
“Is that the best you got, _Agent?_ ” he teased. The way he could slip right back into his persona of an exasperated A.D. pulling rank amused her.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah I think it - woo boy,” she wheezed, laughing, doubled over with her hands on her knees. _Definitely going to need to hit the gym more_. "I think it's _all_ I got."  
  
“I don’t think it is,” he stopped to look down at his t-shirt, grimacing at the wet ring growing around his neck and shoulders. Shifting his gaze, he gave her an exaggerated once over, then looked towards the house.  
  
“I bet you can beat me back to the front door.”  
  
He pointed, and her eyes followed. It wasn’t too far. Only about a block. Still, her thighs felt a little unsteady.  
  
“Oh yeah?” She attempted to sound cocky, hoping her labored breathing didn’t betray her. She very much doubted that she could beat him, even on her best day. “What’s in it for me if I do?”  
  
“Nope. Doesn’t work like that,” he looked away, smiling to himself. She hated how easy it was to flirt with him, how natural. He drew something out of her that she sometimes didn’t even know was there. Something about how comfortable he was in his skin, how sure of himself. It made her feel comfortable too.  
  
“Oh? So how does it work?”  
  
He whistled, crossed his arms, and leveled her with that classic Skinner stare. The “I swear to _god Agent it’ll be your ass -_ “ stare.  
  
“I think you need to make it back to the house before me, or _you’re punished._ ”  
  
“What do you mean punished?” Her stomach fluttered in response to this new, bold flirtation. At some point, she had forgotten what it felt like to be pursued. It’s invigorating, being desired.  
  
“Do you want to find out?” 

She held his gaze for a moment, considering her next move. Fight or flight? Definitely flight.  
  
“No,” she yelled, her legs already propelling her back to the house. Either his reflexes were disconcertingly slow or he was intentionally giving her a head start. Whatever. Something about the mouths of gift horses.  
  
She found herself laughing as she ran, and made it to the door about two feet ahead of him. It was locked - exhausted, she threw her back against it and he almost careened directly into her.  
  
Suddenly, he was everywhere. The size of his body overwhelmed her, Walter’s hands bracing the door on either side of her, and his face was much _much_ too close. They breathed in great labored gasps, and she could smell him - his sweat, his cologne, his toothpaste, and that underlying _maleness._ Composure was difficult to maintain.  
  
“So. I guess you win.”  
  
“I guess I do.”  
  
“Do you know what that means?”  
  
“That I … _don’t_ get punished?”  
  
“Right,” his smile was downright predatory now, and he whispered in a low growl that gave her goosebumps. She got the impression that he was to be the cat and she the canary.“It means you get rewarded.”  
  
She tried to tell him, to remind him that’s specifically how he said this _didn’t_ work, but there wasn’t quite time. One hand slipped around her waist to brace her as the other unlocked the door. It threw her balance as it opened, no longer supporting her weight, and she fell into his grasp.  
  
The mood had shifted. Casual flirtation had ceased to be a concept. If she didn’t know this man, if he hadn’t gone out of his way to define so clearly her means of consent, she might actually be afraid.  
  
“Now get the _fuck_ upstairs,” he barked, turning her around. She stumbled slightly in her haste to head towards the stairs. “See, I’ve been thinking. I got it all wrong earlier. I got _you_ all wrong.”  
  
He was behind her all the way up the stairs and onto the landing. Though she was still winded from their run, he never caught up to her. Instead, he deliberately matched his pace to hers, staying a consistently threatening two steps behind. Just close enough to feed her adrenal response, to raise the little hairs on the back of her neck.  
  
“I was leading you by the hand, and I think that made you feel panicked and a little helpless. I was doing things to you and for you. I was treating you like you were soft. ”  
  
They were on the landing now, almost to the door of the guest room.  
  
“But we both know - you aren’t soft, are you Dana? What you want is danger and risk. What you _need_ is to fucking fight back.”  
  
Adrenaline flooded her body, giving her a second wind. She tried to speed up, clearing the doorway before he did, but not soon enough. Roughly, he grabbed her wrist and wheeled her around to face him, placing his other hand firmly on her ass and pulling her in close. The urge to spit in his face was followed by the urge to crash her lips into his. It was the most thrilled she had ever been.

Why the _fuck_ was she so into this?

She wondered to herself if he was right. If she chased danger, looking for that high. She thought of Jack Willis and Daniel Waterston - both were her instructors, the latter a married man. Did it get her off, these illicit dalliances with inappropriate men? She remembered too, the incredible rush as the needle and ink plunged into her lower back again and again as Ed Jerse watched. The sex with him that night was some of the best in her life.

Maybe he was seeing something in her that had been there all along.  
  
She begun to notice that he was intentionally pausing them here, like this, searching her face - but she wasn’t sure why.

He nodded slowly, an unspoken question.

And it hit her - despite all of the shouting and forceful bravado, he was checking in with her, making sure she was okay with the direction he was taking. Always the gentleman. If he wanted a green light she was certainly prepared to give it to him. It was her turn to smile now - this was a challenge, and Dana Scully always tended to meet those head on.

“When the _fuck_ do I get my reward?” This was the only moment of power she was probably going to get for a long long while. Might as well go for the jugular. She gave a petulant pout, and did her best impression of something doe-eyed. “ _Sir_?”

The effect of her clear enthusiastic consent and her manner of address was instantaneous. She’d have to file the ‘sir’ thing away for later.

“You’ll get your fucking reward, _slut_.”

The entry for “name-calling” with a distinct check in the “maybe” column, flashed before her eyes.

And then he was lunging forward, his momentum lifting her up and neatly tossing her onto the bed. She landed with a soft thud on her back, and before she could reorient herself he was straddling her, pulling her t-shirt over her head and throwing it onto the floor. His hand slid behind her back, unclasping her bra. It was trickier to wrestle this off of her - if he ever asked she would vehemently deny that she had assisted him. But she definitely had.  
  
“Is this it? Is this all you have?” He was taunting her, keeping her pinned with his thighs as he leaned over her, shoving the pillows aside to get to something beneath them. “I know you’re better than this, don’t disappoint me.”  
  
She was genuinely trying, but the size difference wasn’t doing her any favors. Her palms scrabbled at his thighs to no effect. Nothing seemed to deter him.  
  
Finally satisfied that he had found what he was looking for, his hand closed around her right wrist and tugged it up above her head. The position brought his neck just barely within reach of her mouth - it occurred to her that it might be time to fight dirty. She had to strain to pull it off, but she was able to bring her lips to the skin of his throat and he struggled to suppress a groan as she nipped and sucked at the exposed flesh.  
  
It didn’t help her situation much. Some sort of fabric cuff was snugly fitted around her wrist. Experimentally, she pulled her arm. There were a few inches of slack in the strap that bound her - enough to prevent her from truly injuring herself if she struggled, but not enough to accomplish much at all.  
  
He repeated the process again with her left wrist, placing his neck even closer this time. She couldn’t be sure if it was intentional, but she didn’t want to waste the opportunity. The sweat left his skin lightly salty, and she lingered in the taste of him.  
  
Taking a moment to admire his handiwork, he sat back on his heels, being very careful not to place too much of his weight on her legs. Pink welts were forming on the sides of his throat, and she smiled.  
  
He was right. Here she lay bound and pinned under a man twice her size, yet she had never felt so _alive._ The way he looked at her with such hunger, the feel of his fingernails dragging against her ribs, the soft moan when she had bit at his throat - she had never felt this way with anyone. It was as if he actually saw her for who she was. All of the anger and passion she suppressed every single day, the recklessness struggling to break free from behind her composed exterior.  
  
Her previous loves had always treated her like some precious feminine ideal. A string of men who were weak for her, devotees who supplicated themselves at her feet. Hell, even Mulder worshiped her.

But Walter did the opposite.  
  
Walter challenged her.  
  
Shifting his weight, he climbed off of the bed and walked to its end, scrutinizing every inch of her with his gaze.  
  
"You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” he teasing, trying to provoke her. Gripping the waistband of her shorts, he peeled them down her legs.   
  
“What, and you aren’t?” she fired back, lightning quick. Usually sex was for her a self-conscious act. She worried if she was doing things well, if her body moved in the right way, if she made the right sounds. In taking charge of her, in removing the obligation of performance, he eliminated those constraints.   
  
“Keep mouthing off to me,” he sneered, moving on to removing her underwear. “And see where that gets you.”  
  
“Hah," she barked. She never realized provocation could feel so sexy. There was danger in this room, and she courted it openly. "Hopefully it’ll get me off.”  
  
“This is your own fault you know,” Walter chastised her, pulling a third restraint from under the bed. Perhaps, she wondered briefly, she had pressed her luck. “I was just going to stop at your wrists, but obviously you can’t be trusted to behave.”  
  
“You’re the one who told me to fight.” Even as she pulled away, his hand shot out, catching her ankle. She pulled back hard, but it was no use - he was simply so much stronger than she was.  
  
“Please, shut the fuck up,” he snarled, moving towards her. Before she could acquaint herself with her new circumstances, he was crouched before her, painfully gripping the thigh of her free leg and shoving it unceremoniously over his shoulder. With zero preamble, his lips closed over her, tongue running along her slit. Her whole body arched into his touch, rebelling against the restraints.  
  
“ _Fuck_ you, you fucking _bastard_ ,” she cried - he had told her to fight, and she didn’t intend on stopping.  
  
It was fascinating - she had always looked at the performance of oral sex as a purely submissive act. But there was nothing submissive about what he was doing to her now She was now beginning to understand all those old legends of incubi - here was Satan incarnate, trying to remove her soul with his mouth. He put the full force of his body into his shoulders and against her hips, as if he was genuinely trying to fuck her with his mouth, occasionally letting his teeth graze against her swollen flesh.  
  
She wouldn’t - couldn’t - hold out much longer, not like this.  
  
“God - please - don’t stop,” she begged, her voice barely more than a whimper. She wasn't sure if she had ever begged for anything like this in her life.  
  
So of _course_ he stopped.  
  
“You really don’t seem to get it do you,” he growled, trailing sharp and unkind kisses up the crease of her thigh and onto her torso. He paused for a moment, lingering over the jut of her hip bone, then onto the gunshot scar just above it. “You aren’t in charge here, Dana.”  
  
He was at her breasts now, and just as his lips closed around the nipple of her left breast, he forced two fingers inside of her. She was feeling it now - no matter how hard she tried to maintain control, her head was growing fuzzy and thick. The sensations were too much, and she was drowning in them. Surrendering, she began to fall into what Walter had explained to her as subspace - a mind state where nothing existed other than his instructions and the various stimuli she was provided with. It was the most comfortable and safe she had ever felt.  
  
As a means of keeping her legs apart, he straddled her thigh. The harder he pumped his fingers in her, the lower he had to sit. The last thing she remembered before her orgasm took her by force was the satisfaction of knowing for certain, just this once, that he was affected too. Because she could feel it this time. She pushed her thigh upward, as much as the restraint allowed, and watched his eyes flutter closed as she came in contact with his extremely hard cock.  
  
Well. This certainly complicated things, didn’t it?  
  



	7. Lover, You Should Have Come Over

She was never quite sure if she had friends. Amiable and generally well-liked, she would consistently have a circle of acquaintances and coworkers that welcomed her presence. But that deeper connection, the transition into the shared vulnerability of _actual_ friendship was always hard for her. It was as if she missed class that day, when everyone else learned the mechanics of companionship.

This wasn't delusional self-pity. People seemed to like her, and she was confident in that at the very least. Roughly a quarter of that was men who thought of her as pretty, and she inured herself to that rather well over the years. Being a reasonably attractive woman in historically male-dominated fields tended to bring on that sort of attention.   
  
Outside of the occasional unsolicited friendliness from her male colleagues, she was the sort of coworker that people could rely on. Not just to perform her duties predictably and competently, but for an emotional fortitude. She was the one you were happy to see on the schedule, relieved at her presence in the building.

But not someone you paid much attention to.

It must follow then, Dana reasoned, that her encounters with Walter had left her uncharacteristically exuberant. Something about her had outwardly changed and people were noticing.

Three separate instances of such attention occurred over the week, each one leaving her increasingly dissatisfied and confused with her whole situation.  
  
The first was on Tuesday. Amanda was a slight, rather severe girl with short dark hair and a lot of piercings. She was young, maybe 25 or 27 at most - although the older Dana got, the younger everyone around her seemed. They worked remarkably well together, purely because neither felt the need to be overly conversational.

So when, in between recording organ weights, Amanda told her that she seemed “glowier," it felt really, _really_ bizarre. It was hard to feel “glowy” with her hands in a puddle of ruptured intestines. What did that even _mean_?   
  
Then, Wednesday. The security guard, Lionel, who had spoken probably a total of eight sentences to her prior to this moment, asked her how her weekends have been. If there was someone special in her life right now. He had the audacity to _wink_ at her. Did she have a sign taped to her back? “Hi, I’m Dana Scully, M.D. And I just got _laid_.”  
  
The proverbial last straw was Friday. It was time to take her lunch hour, and Janelle, who was at least twenty years her senior and also _only saw her at shift change on Fridays_ , felt the need to contribute her two cents. As Dana was peeling off her latex gloves to toss them in the bin, Janelle had the nerve to ask who, exactly, was this mystery man (or woman) that she might be seeing.

“Enjoy your shift, Janelle,” she replied, perhaps a little too unkindly, letting the lid of the waste bin slam shut. She'd have to apologize later. Maybe buy her some chocolates.

Learning that morning that Walter was currently in Baltimore had contributed largely to her sour mood. There was some conference of department heads he was forced to attend, one of those grossly bureaucratic things that made her thankful she had never been promoted. He had actually been here since Tuesday, today being the last day of the conference. The fact that he had declined to tell her that he was in her city until the day he was departing it bothered her in a way she couldn’t quite articulate. Or maybe didn’t want to acknowledge.  
  
If she was “seeing him” (which she wasn’t) (or was she?) (what exactly constituted _seeing_ someone?) then shouldn’t he have told her? Maybe she was overreacting. It’s not like he was her boyfriend. They were far too old to think of things in terms like that anyway. Was there a Cosmo guide to this? Or some sort of Dear Abby column about the etiquette of quasi-long distance domming with your former boss/friend who helped to save the life of your alien abducted ex-lover?

_Boy_ , she reflected, _her life never got less strange_.  
  
She had barely heard from him all week, and the conference explained that. But it didn’t make all the little comments about her mystery suitor any less of a nuisance. Taking it upon herself to text him this morning, she simply asked him how he had been. It was then that he volunteered his whereabouts. Before she had really considered it, she had asked him out to lunch, taking advantage of his proximity. But as their lunch date inched ever closer, she grew to regret even asking. If he wanted to see her while he was here he certainly would’ve said so.

Dana tried her best to remind herself that if he didn’t want to see her, he wouldn’t have agreed to meeting her for lunch at all. He was an adult and perfectly capable of making decisions.

There was a small Vietnamese place she liked near the hotel the conference was being held at. They had a nice lemongrass tofu. And very strong coffee. And most importantly, quick service. It seemed acceptable to him, or at least that’s all she could glean from the “fine” he sent in reply.

On her way to meet him, she half-considered fabricating an excuse for why she suddenly couldn’t make it, that maybe a sudden plague had descended, or the body she was carving up exploded, or … something. Again she had to talk herself out of it. _Rational adults_. That’s what they were.

She got there before him, of course. And spent the entire time replaying the last weekend in her head, trying to figure out what _exactly_ she had done or hadn’t done or did incorrectly or _what_ to warrant this detachment. Perhaps she had read the whole weekend wrong, had viewed the whole thing through rose-colored lenses, and she was actually now seeing the way things were the whole time. And if this was the way things were, they weren’t so bad. She had good sex with a good friend. And those were nice things, right?

She would be composed, she decided. Just two very good friends eating lunch, nothing more. Compartmentalizing was a strength of hers.

No matter how hard she steeled herself against it, she still felt her stomach flutter when he walked through the door, her pulse rising and pupils dilating when he sat down. She reminded herself that those were just involuntary physiological responses to seeing a sexual partner. Surely she had read that in a biology text somewhere.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I don’t have much time,” he mumbled, already pouring over the menu. No “hello Dana” or “how are you Dana” or “its nice seeing you after we each confessed to murder and then I stuck my tongue in your cunt.”

“I’m sure the bureau has kept you busy,” she stated matter-of-factly, a conversational olive branch. “It’s a knack of theirs.”

Silence.

“The lemongrass tofu vermicelli is quite nice. Although, you’re probably not a tofu person. Or maybe you are, I don’t know.” She was rambling now and chastised herself for it.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, softening. “I’m not very good company right now. Like you said yourself, the bureau is really good at turning a whole lot of nothing into a several day affair. If I have to see one more budgetary item I’m going to lose my mind.”

This felt like an evasion, but at least he was making an attempt, and it helped to assuage her anxieties a little. Mercifully, the waitress arrived to take their order, absolving her of the need to respond to his apology.  
  
“So,” she attempted again to resuscitate their dead conversation, “you leave town tonight?”  
  
“Thankfully, yeah.”

_Thankfully._ She knew he was referring to the conference being over, but she couldn’t help but take it as a slight against her. God, this was nauseating. When the noodles arrived she fantasized about flinging them onto the floor like a dissatisfied toddler. Instead she settled on poking them half-heartedly with her chopsticks.

They spoke in polite single sentences, with all the passion of a game of Sunday badminton. Question - response, question - response, question - back and forth, over and over. She felt like some business colleague. It kept her shifting from annoyance to petty humiliation. 

How could he act as if nothing had happened between them? He was more distant now than when they had worked together.

There was a time, she recalled, when they had traversed the desert together. Looking for the ship that took Mulder, looking for Gibson Praise. It’s what they were always doing - Walter, Mulder, herself. Chasing phantoms. She pulled a gun on him then, too.

She was grateful when his phone rang, and even more grateful still when he told her that he had to leave, that they had called the meeting back into session even earlier than he had anticipated.

In all fairness, he seemed genuinely sorry about having to leave her. And he wasn’t outright rude. Just - detached. Casual. The way he held her hand as he said goodbye certainly complicated her feelings.

She took her coffee to-go, and called her supervisor. She never asked for much, and it was remarkably easy to secure the rest of the afternoon off. It certainly helped that, as a medical doctor, one can fake very acutely the symptoms of fast-acting food poisoning.

The only stop she made between the parking garage and her apartment was to buy a bottle of grenache. She was not one to drink her problems very often, but today warranted an exemption.

The lock to her front door stuck. It always stuck, but she was less emotionally equipped to deal with it today than usual. By the time she had rattled it into submission, something in her had finally snapped. Blustering inside, she set the wine on the counter, tossed her coat and keys next to it, and surveyed her home.

She hated it.

A stark contrast to the home that was so distinctly _Walter,_ that oozed his soul from every tendril of ivy, every battered and torn trade paperback. It felt like living in an IKEA showroom. A mostly pre-furnished unit, in shades of beige and taupe, devoid of personality.

_Just like her._ She shuddered, trying to shake the depression that threatened to swallow up her afternoon, and searched her kitchen for a corkscrew.

The wine wasn’t as comforting as she had hoped. Maybe there wasn’t a balm for the schism of loneliness developing in her chest.  
  
In an effort to distract herself, she idly sorted through a pile of mail. Among junk mail and a letter from the DMV about her vehicle registration was a hand-addressed envelope. From her brother, Bill, and his wife, Tara. Inside were school pictures of their son Matthew - he was fourteen now, and they were his first high school photos. There was a letter too. Melissa, God rest her soul, had loved to send hand-written notes and cards. It was a habit that herself, Bill, and to a lesser extent Charles, had maintained in her absence. She skimmed it - general updates, well-wishes, a new dog. Quaint and pleasantly, nauseatingly domestic.

However, her gaze lingered on one sentence in particular. Bill had seen fit, in his infinite wisdom, to suggest that maybe - now that she was single, now that her awful partner was gone - that she settle down, find someone nice. 

It was her own fault, really. She should have known better than to open mail from Bill when she felt as crummy as she did. Wracking her brain, she struggled to come up with a single interaction with her brother through the years that had actually improved her emotional state. 

The whole world it seemed, was suddenly very interested in whether or not Dana Scully was dating someone. The entire world, with the exception of Walter Skinner.

She could be cavalier about this, could put on a brave face and smile politely through her lunch, but at the end of the day she was so goddamn lonely _._ Sitting on her couch, in her cookie-cutter taupe box, it occurred to her that the one man capable of assuaging her loneliness was probably still in town. Conveniently ignoring the fact that the same man was _causing_ her loneliness.

Walter was seawater. She drank because she was thirsty, but it wasn’t going to do her much good.

It was only just past five - with any luck, he would still be at the conference. These things tended to run long in her experience. If she called him now, she could catch him before he started to drive home. Hell, he had been here most of the week. Maybe he had a hotel room for the night.

The line rang. And rang. And rang. And then went to voicemail.

So she called him again. Nothing.

On the third attempt, he hung up, responding with a text.

**can i help you?**

**come over. before you leave town.**

**why?**

**why do you think?**

**are you making demands now?**

**yes. come over. I demand it.**

**fine.**

**omw.**

She certainly hadn't expected him to actually agree to this. Having no idea where he was or how much time she had, she panicked. A naturally tidy person, the apartment only took a few minutes to look perfectly presentable. She was another thing altogether, rushing to the bathroom to do something about … well. All of it. There was a red wine stain on her lips - after an unsuccessful attempt to clean it off she settled for covering it with lipstick instead. Her hair was limp, and no amount of dry shampoo seemed to give it much volume. On top of that, she was still wearing her work clothes, and felt far too severe. A knock on the door interrupted her - this was going to have to do.

She certainly wasn’t prepared for what greeted her when she opened the door.

A quiet tower of rage, he muscled his way past her into the apartment. The silence unnerved her as he took off his sports coat, tossing it onto her dining table. Silent still, as he deliberately unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves, then moved on to loosening his tie.

“Walter?” She ventured.  
  
He placed his hands in his pockets, and stared at his shoes. The suspense threatened to consume her.

“Walter, you’re worrying me.” He pursed his lips, looking at anything but her, clearly struggling with something. Though what, she had no idea.

“What _exactly_ do you think we’re doing here?” He wielded the question like a scalpel, cutting directly into her chest.

“Excuse me?”

He advanced on her. Never the type to run from a fight, she drew herself up and stared him down.

“Do you think I’m some kind of _fuck buddy?_ Some kind of, I don’t know, sex object? That you can just call and demand on a whim?”

Leaning closer to her, he smelled her breath. “Fuck. Are you drunk?”

“Maybe. No. I mean - yes, I’ve been,” she paused, searching for the words. “Drinking. But I am _not_ drunk.”

He deflated, the anger residing a little, but not entirely.

“So you got drunk, and you got horny, and you called me? Because what, you couldn’t just handle it yourself?” The question was snarled and unkind. All at once she was filled with indignant rage.

She would not just sit here and let him keep hurling these petty insults at her. _"What?_ That’s absolutely ridiculous-” 

Placing her chin in his hand and forcing her eyes to meet his, he cut her sentence short.

“You asked me to come here, right?” His tone was softer now and he searched her eyes. “You _want_ me here, yes?”

All of this anger, she realized - he was posturing. It was a fucking _game._ She asked him to come over, and he said yes. If he was genuinely mad at her, why would he bother?

“Of course I want you here,” she whispered, and it gutted him. The mask lifted, briefly, and there was only Walter, eyes full of adoration. It was too much to bear, for either of them. For a moment she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he turned from her abruptly, clearly frustrated.

“Why didn’t you just handle it your fucking self?” He was back in character now, all vulnerability neatly subdued and locked up tight. Shame. “I don’t want to touch you like this. Not when you’ve been drinking.”

“What do you mean ‘handle it myself’?”

“Come on. You’re smarter than that. Your wand. Where is it?”

She flushed crimson. The wand in question was the vibrator he had recommended she purchase so many months ago. Of course she had it, why did he want to know where it was? Unless - _oh_.

“It’s. Um.” Suddenly very self-conscious, she struggled to speak at an audible volume. Clearing her throat did nothing to help. “In my bedroom.”

“Fine. Lead the way,” he demanded, gesturing with an open palm. Trance-like, she wandered to her room, with Walter close behind. It was surreal, having him here with her. Being in his home was one thing, but having him here where she lived, entering the room where she slept, added a certain weight to things. Two images of him - the man she thought of as some sort of lover, and the man who she thought of as a colleague, her superior, and a friend - were at odds in her mind.

She still hadn’t forgiven him for evading her all week, or for the stilted and uncomfortable lunch. But she asked him here, and he came. And that in itself was something.

His gaze stayed on her as she walked to the nightstand and mortified, reached into the drawer. Without turning to face him, she heard the click of the door closing, then the sound of him rolling her desk chair from its corner to the foot of the bed.

“Plug it in. Strip. And lay down.” Walter leaned back in the chair, giving himself a full view of the bed. Exuding confidence, the command in his voice was comforting, absolving her of her sins. She was only following orders, see? How could she ever say no?

As she began to undress, it occurred to her she had never done so in front of him. Either she had undressed before he entered the room, or like their last encounter, he had wrestled her clothes off of her. She recalled how powerful the hunger in his eyes had made her feel, as they raked over her bound and naked form, and it imbued her with a new self-possession.

It was not a strip-tease. There was no dancing, nor lingering over garments. But she stood tall and shameless, her eyes never leaving his as her clothes pooled at her feet. His jaw trembled slightly as he swallowed. For one happy moment, there was a crack in the facade.

He came to her when she called him. He _wanted_ her, no matter what he said or did otherwise.  
  
And at the moment, apparently, he wanted to watch her pleasure herself.  
  
The energy between them was electric, and neither wanted to disrupt the spell with words. Giving him the best line of sight, she lay wantonly against the pillows, brazenly spreading her legs.

Something in her had switched. She was allowing him the illusion of power, when in reality it was he who was under her thumb. _His_ eyes couldn’t leave her, _his_ breathing grew short, _his_ tongue darted against his lip. He wanted to watch her? Then it was going to be one hell of a show. Shamelessly, she gripped the handle of the cylindrical device, switched it on, and pressed it against her sex.  
  
Within mere minutes, the strength of the vibrations was too much, and she was getting much too close, much too quickly. Her back was arching now, her eyes fluttering closed -  
  
“Don’t. Don’t you _dare_ fucking cum,” he growled at her. Her eyes snapped open. He was trying to look composed, but she saw the flush creeping above his collar and up his throat. And she saw the bulge straining against his trousers, noting the way he shifted in his seat. “I didn’t tell you to stop. Not entirely. Keep going, but if you get close? Stop.”  
  
“What happens - what happens if I fail?”  
  
He smirked, worrying the arm of his glasses with his teeth. “Do you really want to find out?”

Hours passed, or maybe just minutes. Losing count of how many times she had started and stopped, her whole body tingled with sensitivity. Every nerve felt raw and exposed.

Maybe they were both losing this game. Or maybe they were both winning. She couldn't tell.

Clearing his throat, he squirmed again.

“You look uncomfortable,” she gasped. A thick sheen of sweat glistened across her chest and brow, and she stopped again, panting. “Maybe you should do something about that.”

His eyebrow arched, watching a muscle spasm ripple through her thigh. Her knee jittered in response.

“Oh? What do you suggest I do? I’m not going to stop watching you.”

She laughed. How could he be so dense? 

“That’s not what I was suggesting - _ah_ ,” she pressed the vibrator against herself, but had to stop after only several seconds. This was getting absurd. “I’m suggesting that you relieve yourself.”

He stilled. “Is that something you would enjoy?”

“I swear, we’ve had this conversation before - _shit,_ ” she gritted her teeth. She would be damned if she blew this, if she orgasmed before getting him to lose control in front of her. “Please. Please _sir._ ”

It was amazing how well the title worked on him. He considered for a moment, then resigned himself to obliging her. Abruptly, he unzipped his pants, taking his length into his fist. She bit back a moan as he pointedly stared into her eyes and spit into his palm, massaging it against the head of his cock.

This was quite possibly the single most erotic moment of her entire life. Watching him, the way his hips jerked ever so slightly into the motion of his hand. How occasionally his rhythm would stutter when she moaned or spasmed. Knowing with certainty that he was doing this for her, in response to her.

Fucking him would not have been as unspeakably arousing. Neither of them would last long like this. She wanted to time it, to have them release simultaneously. He seemed to be heading for the same goal.

“Please,” she whimpered, toes curling into the sheets as she listened to the sounds of his fist. “Please, Walter. I can’t - I can’t keep doing this.”

“You can let go now, Dana,” he groaned. “I’m right behind you.”

She could have wept with relief. Her body fought her as she tried in vain to hold the vibrator still against herself, languishing in that cacophony of sensation. Trying to maintain good relations with her neighbors, she bit down on her fist, stifling the scream that threatened to escape from her very being.

This display was enough to tip him over the edge with her, his eyes closing as he jerked into his hand.  
  
In the quiet stillness of the afterglow, everything felt so absurd. He was so disheveled. Her _teeth_ felt funny. Trying to stifle them at first, and failing miserably, she began to dissolve in a fit of giggles. Like laughter in a church, the harder she tried to stop them, the more they overtook her.

It must have been contagious, because he started laughing too.

She thought to herself just how much she really needed a fucking shower.  
  
Later, he would stand in her hallway, keys in hand, neither of them knowing how to say goodbye. She couldn’t articulate it, but tonight was different. Maybe they didn’t have to.  
  
“It’s late. You can stay here,” she offered, quietly. “If you want.”  
  
Shoulders dropping, he stopped in his tracks.  
  
“I don’t have an extra bedroom. But I do have an extra toothbrush.”  
  
He wrestled within himself, and something finally won out. “I’d like that. A lot actually.”  
  
When she emerged from her bathroom, he was sitting on the bed, clad in his undershirt and boxer shorts. Without his glasses, and in such a state of undress, he looked so acutely human that her heart ached. He was so tired, it seemed.  
  
Unsure if she should touch him, she climbed into the bed, and turned to turn off the light. Some shuffling later, she felt him pull the blanket up over his chest. How badly she wanted to turn to him, to place her head on his chest. Instead they faced away, into the darkness, careful not to touch.  
  
As she drifted out of consciousness, she could hear him whisper.  
  
“Goodnight, Dana.”  
  
It almost felt like he said “I love you,” instead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I hate writing these two not happy with each other. But sometimes you need to suffer to grow, right?


	8. To Love Somebody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did it. It's done. This is the longest thing I have ever written in my life and I'm both overjoyed and more than a little bit sad that it's over. Thanks to everyone who has stuck it out so far. Your comments are sincerely appreciated.

Dana finds herself captivated by the dust motes in the beam of sunlight streaming through the window into the basement office. She recalls vividly an afternoon spent eating non-dairy ice cream while Mulder sorts through baseball statistics on time-worn newspaper pages. The light had looked the same then, illuminating one of their few truly joyful days in this dungeon. It was one of the moments she knew without hesitation that she loved him.

Everything about the room feels metallic and slightly _off_ , as if it were drawn from memory. The trees in Mulder’s beloved poster are the wrong shade of green. All of the papers strewn about are blank. The nameplate on the desk should be embossed with the name of her partner but the letters keep rearranging themselves as she turns it in her hand. Try as she might she can’t hear her own breathing and her footsteps on the tile sound like they’re miles away. Suddenly, she is acutely aware that someone is standing in the doorway, watching her every move. A familiar black coat is all she sees when she turns to look.

Walter is leaving and she knows, somehow, that she must follow him.

No matter how quickly she walks he remains painfully out of reach. She calls out to him several times but the sound is murky and suppressed, like trying to speak at the bottom of a pool. By the time they get to the elevator there is a small crowd between them, all of whom pile in together as soon as the doors open. An ocean of brown and black coats separates her from him - she has to strain on tiptoe to even see the back of his head. The man in front of her shuffles backward and she is pushed slightly into the rear wall. He doesn’t even acknowledge her, none of them do. She thinks again about how she can’t hear her breathing. Bile rises in her throat. She can’t articulate why she is terrified but she knows one thing for certain - she _can’t_ lose him.

Out of the elevator and down the hall, the rabble spilling out of the doors between them. She is beyond the point of propriety now, shouting his name as loudly as she can, jostling the people in front of her. Still there is no response from him. No response from anyone.

He strides into his office now, past the secretary who doesn’t see her, and she’s finally gaining on him. The wool of his coat is so close to her she can see how worn it is, all the pills, the fraying on the shoulder seam. She can smell him, hear his labored breathing - so why can’t he hear her calling his name?

Without hesitation he crosses to the desk, frantically searching for something. And there _he_ is, there _he_ always is, perched in the corner of this room in a cloud of smoke and sulfur like Lucifer incarnate. It stops her in her tracks.  
  
“Do you really believe me, Walter?” he muses, igniting the lighter in his hand, taking a drag from his cigarette. Finding in his desk drawer what he came there for, Walter turns to leave.

“Are you so sure that she is behind you?” he hisses. Walter halts for a moment at the door and she almost collides with his back. “Do you really think I’d let you win? Or that she would even follow _you_?”

She takes the moment of stopped momentum to place her hand on his shoulder. Walter shudders at the contact and instinctively turns around. His face is a mask of anguish - the second their eyes meet she feels herself starting to disintegrate, fading out of existence.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“I know you are. And so am I.”

Her sheets tangled around her legs claustrophobically as she was thrust, gasping, into consciousness. Not since Mulder’s abduction had she experienced a nightmare so vivid. Her head spun as she stumbled into the bathroom, heaving into the toilet the moment she neared it. The reflection in the mirror as she rinsed her mouth was haunted. She stood for a moment to regain composure, gripping the counter top to anchor herself.

And then realized that when she woke there was an empty space in the bed where she had expected Walter to be. It was acutely disappointing but not altogether surprising. Which was somehow worse. That he had come over and then consented to stay the night had given her hope, no matter how silly it made her feel now. The image of him sitting in her bed in his undershirt looking vulnerable and small kept returning to her, no matter how hard she tried to shake it.

She stared dumbly at the rumpled sheets he slept in, trying to will herself into some sort of action. Numbness prevented her from doing a whole lot else. Maybe she should call him. She fumbled for her phone on the nightstand and dialed.  
  
It didn’t occur to her until it was ringing that she didn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t ask him why he left - he would either offer an excuse or tell her something that she didn’t want to hear. It also didn’t occur to her until at least the fourth ring that his phone was still in her room, vibrating loudly on the opposite nightstand. _Oh._

The apartment was quiet. It wasn't a very large place, she certainly would have heard him if he was moving around. She slid loose shorts under the t-shirt she slept in and went to investigate.

Finding the living room and kitchen as empty as she expected them to be, she concluded that he _had_ left. And, she surmised, hastily enough that he had forgotten his phone. Flopping onto the couch, she engaged in a full-scale pity party. Just couldn't be bothered to stay and say goodbye. Would he realize he left the phone here and return for it? Or would he panic, thinking that he lost it somewhere in her building or any number of places that morning?

A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. He must have realized he left it here after all. How awkward for them both.  
  
She was surprised by what greeted her on the other side of the door. Haphazardly balancing a bag of pastries, a plastic clamshell container of cut fruit and two coffees, Walter looked extremely tired and more than a little stressed out.  
  
“Please, here,” she rushed forward to take something, anything out of his hand. “Let me help you. How did you even make it up the stairs like this?”  
  
“It wasn’t easy, I can tell you that much. I was going to make you breakfast but you don’t actually _have_ anything here.” He set the spread on the coffee table and she grabbed two cloth napkins from her kitchen before joining him in the living room. Two croissants were in the paper bag. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation - she hadn’t eaten anything since the tofu from yesterday’s lunch, and even then she only picked at it. “It’s blonde roast with oat milk right?”

She smiled despite herself. Of course he had her coffee order memorized. They sat in a mutual silence, taking measured sips of their brew. It was only when she had truly begun to relax and enjoy the damn croissant that he finally worked up the courage to say what he had been struggling with since he sat down.

“Dana,” he set his coffee on the table. “We need to talk.”  
  
 _Ah yes, everyone’s favorite four little words._ She focused on a suddenly fascinating crumb of pastry in her lap.  
  
“I haven’t been entirely honest with you. Hell, I haven’t been a very good person these past few days. It was wrong of me to not tell you I was here this week. I treated you like shit yesterday. I was rude and short with you at lunch. I shouldn’t have come over here last night. And I certainly shouldn’t have lost control of myself like that in front of you either. I was thinking about myself, not you, and frankly - that’s inexcusable. As both a dominant and your friend.”

Setting his coffee on the table, he stood, pacing for a few steps before stopping behind his chair. He gripped its back and toyed with a loose thread. With his eyes downcast and his shoulders slumped, he looked like a guilty child. “Really, I shouldn’t have even agreed to any of this. I thought - I thought if I put up enough distance, enough walls - that I could be a friend. I can pretend all I want that I did this for you, but to say so would be lying to myself. And to you. I owe you so much more than that.”

“What are you saying?” She struggled to read between the lines. Clearly she was failing to intuit something major here. As annoyed as she had been the past few days it certainly didn't warrant an apology of this magnitude.

“You remember that last secretary of mine? The redheaded girl?”

“Arlene?” Of course she remembered her, but to bring her up now struck her as a bit of a non-sequitur.

“She asked me out a couple of times, flirted with me a lot. Openly,” he blushed slightly, embarrassed by the admission. “I never took her up on it, you know why?”

“Because you were her boss?” she retorted. “And that would have been _wrong_?”  
  
“I’d like to pretend that’s what it was." He laughed quietly and mirthlessly to himself. It was almost angry and for once she really thought he looked his age. "I could hide behind that, and I probably did for a while. But - I couldn’t do it because she looked too much like you.”  
  
Her stomach dropped out from underneath her. Timidly at first, a concept of a scale much too large for her to comprehend all at once began to unfold before her. The only reason he wouldn’t be able to - because she _looked like her -_  
  
“I love you." He smacked the flat of his hand against the chair in a gesture of frustration. "Fuck. _That_ doesn’t even feel adequate. I can't fucking - I love you, Dana, and I have for a very long time.”  
  
When they were very young Melissa and Dana had a snowball fight at their grandmother’s house. With zero malicious intent, Melissa had hurled a large chunk of frozen snow at Dana’s midsection and the force of the impact made her vomit in their driveway. Walter’s words hit her in much the same way. She fumbled for the right thing to say, how exactly to respond to such an unexpected admission.

“How long?” She hoped her tone didn’t sound too accusatory.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’m not sure when it started, it feels like it’s always been like this,” he sighed to himself, readying himself for his anticipated interrogation. “I know the first time I was certain. The first time I knew how _fucked_ I really was. You remember that hearing, after Mulder’s presumed suicide?”  
  
“The one where I accused you of _treason?_ ” Her complete lack of faith in him at that time was something she still felt shame over.  
  
“That would be the one. That hurt, deeply, but that’s not my point. Your illness had advanced with a severity I wasn’t aware of at the time, and you …. collapsed.” The memory was a painful one, and they both struggled with the recollection. “I don’t know exactly how much you remember - but I was the one who caught you. I held you as they called for help, clasped your frail body in my arms. I was so struck by how small you felt, how someone so imposing and formidable could be rendered so weak.”

Her memories of the incident were fuzzy at best. It never occurred to her before how she had gotten from the bureau to her hospital bed, what was entailed in the transition.  
  
“Hell, Dana, I rode in the goddamn ambulance with you. The EMT tried to tell me not to - I guess I scared him into it. I stood guard outside your hospital room, praying for Mulder to get to you, knowing that he would somehow fix this - just like the two of you always did.  
  
“The fear I felt at seeing you like that, the sheer panic at the thought of anything happening to you - that’s when I knew just how much trouble I was in, just how badly I had it.”  
  
“Walter - I don’t know what to say.”  
  
“I need you to know,” he swallowed hard. “I didn’t just spend my time pining for you. I threw myself into the other aspects of my life. Irene always knew - it’s why we fit together so comfortably. Both of our hearts belonged to someone else, and we found comfort in each other. I made friends, _good_ friends. I read books and listened to music, got a cat, tended to my fucking houseplants. I didn’t sit there lovesick waiting for you, wishing for you to _choose_ me or notice me. I wouldn’t have wanted you if you did.  
  
“I never told you how I felt because it didn’t matter. You had your soulmate already. Mulder. You were perfect for each other - otherworldly. Once in a lifetime shit. The way you were when you were with him - you were at your best. And I would never _ever_ do anything to jeopardize that.”  
  
A tear fell against her palm. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. This was too much, all of it, and she didn’t know what to do with any of it. A thousand memories flooded back to her, countless little moments that now held so much more meaning. All of those times she was hurt or endangered - Mulder would rush in and he would be right at his heels.

“I kissed you,” she realized, blushing. “Oh my God. I kissed you that time in the elevator.”

“Yeah that was - baffling,” he shrugged.

“They made that stupid movie.” This was insane. All of this was insane. “They made that stupid movie and they made it so I was in love with you. Fuck. We laughed at that. I’m so sorry.”

She recalled now that night in the hospital when she learned of her pregnancy. The anguish on his face as he recounted his failure to protect her partner.

“When Mulder was taken.” Her heart ached with the new realization. “You blamed yourself. Not just because you felt like you lost him, but that you failed me. That’s why you fought so hard to get him back again - for _me._ ”

He had watched her mourn for Mulder for months, watched the woman he loved so desperately and dearly mourn for another man and instead of petty jealousy he felt nothing but guilt and a fierce obligation to protect her. She remembered now the pain in his eyes when she _again_ pointed a gun at him, terrified that he was some sort of alien shapeshifter. And she remembered too the look on his face when she knocked on his motel door, half-crazed with the fear that they would find Mulder’s corpse the same way they found the other abandoned abductees. The way he stood with her in the grass without hesitation, coat slung over his pajamas, to listen to her fears and attempt to comfort her.

“Watching you shoulder all of that grief alone - pregnant and terrified - I did everything I could to keep you safe. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be safe.” Absentmindedly, he rubbed his arm and it occurred to her just how tortuous the time he spent under Krycek’s thumb must have been. The way he looked that night in his office when he had been poisoned, his ragged breathing as she gently probed his side with her fingers - he must have destested her seeing him so weak.

“You tried to tell me - in a way. When you showed me the scars on your arm. You wanted to tell me just how badly Krycek had hurt you - how he had made you turn against me."

“I never told you or Mulder. I always assumed Agent Doggett had let it slip.” He sat down heavily on the opposite end of the couch and placed his head in his hands. The beard and fully-shaved head lent him a younger, more vital appearance, but now she saw the full burden of years upon him. Years alone.

“Let _what_ slip?” She leaned over to him now, placing a gentle hand on his thigh. He recoiled from her touch like her hand was made of hot steel.  
  
“The reason I hated Krycek so much. The reason I couldn’t go to him for the vaccine - the reason I unplugged the life support machines - I tried to _kill_ Mulder.” He wrestled with his choices, even now. “The price for the vaccine was the termination of your pregnancy. Krycek wanted me to _kill_ your unborn son.”

With the heft of this new confession his voice broke and it eviscerated her. The thought of that choice being thrust upon him, of Krycek weaponizing his love for her - it was too painful to comprehend.

More painful still was the idea of him holding her at arm’s length these past few weeks - the years they both spent being so goddamn unhappy. All of the confusion she felt, the self-doubt and rejection. The absolution they could have offered each other, all this time within their grasp. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in town? Why were you so cold to me yesterday?” She felt the warm rough edges of frustration creeping in on her. “Why all of these games and the distancing?”

“Why would I burden you with all of this?” He looked at her quizzically. “How could I possibly expect you to shoulder this, too? You’ve been through so much, Dana.”

_Sheer fucking hubris._

“ _Burden me_? Really?” If Dana hated anything in this world, it was men who assumed her fragility. Walter of all people should know better. “I’ve been sitting here for weeks, hating myself for falling in love with a man who keeps seeing me sexually but doesn’t seem to want me romantically, torturing myself and wondering what I could have _possibly_ done wrong - ”

“Falling in love?” He interrupted her tirade so quietly it was almost a whisper.

She hadn’t realized she had said it. 

She honestly hadn’t realized that she even _felt_ it until he repeated it back to her. At some point in these past weeks she had gone from merely wanting him and enjoying his company to genuinely loving him. Maybe it was even longer ago than that. Little by little, piece by piece, a string of moments and acts that endeared him to her. She didn’t have the luxury of a single identifiable moment, a point in time where the clouds parted and she saw him as she did now.

But she did love him. Of this she could be sure.

“I guess so. Yeah,” she laughed to herself, wiping the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Now that I’m saying it out loud.”

“You _guess_ so?” He arched an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth turned up ever so-slightly, the specter of a smile. She leaned into him, half-expecting him to back away. Despite all of the intimacy they had shared so far this was the closest to him she had ever felt.

“Yes,” she whispered against his lips. “I guess so.”

Dana moved first, bringing her mouth to his ever-so gently, ghosting a kiss. When he didn’t respond she pulled back, afraid that somehow again she had misstepped. His eyes had fluttered shut and he sat for a moment blissfully lingering in the sensation of her kiss.

When they opened again all of his apprehension was gone, replaced by clear and urgent longing. She surged forward, greedily pressing her lips against his, Walter groaning slightly.  
  
She had wondered several times what it would be like to kiss him but all of her ruminations left her ill-prepared for the real thing. It was as if he wanted to devour her. Nipping at her lips, sucking at her tongue, his hands roamed over her body. One wound itself into her hair while the other pulled her into his lap. She obliged the request and straddled him. As she lowered herself against him she felt his hard length brush against her sex. His body stiffened at the contact - mischievously, she pushed herself against him deliberately, harder this time, pulling her mouth from his to gasp for air.

Never one to allow her the upper hand for too long, Walter tugged experimentally at her hair, tilting her head back and exposing her throat. She struggled helplessly and half-heartedly to get away, the fingertips of his other hand digging into the flesh of her hip and pinning her where she sat.

It made her want to scream, how delicately his lips dragged along the exposed flesh of her throat. His teeth scraped against her skin, eliciting an involuntary whimper. Moving his mouth along her jaw, up to her ear, he whispered to her. “I can stop, if this is too much. If I’m moving too fast -”

“If you stop now, I swear to God, I will _kill_ you,” she whined.

He laughed against her throat, the vibrations tickling her into a fit of giggles. “I don’t know about you, but I’m far too old for cramped sex on a couch. Can we move this somewhere else?”

“Fine,” she feigned a disappointed little sigh. “If we must.”

His hand never left hers as she led him to the bedroom, an apt metaphor for the years he spent just two steps behind her, always ready to catch her if she faltered. She wished she knew just how to try and communicate the enormity of the affection she felt for him now. They stood so close they breathed each other’s air as he cradled her face in his hand. She arched into the touch, letting her eyes drift close and simply inhaling his scent.

“Why are we like this, Walter?” she whispered. “Why do we run from our own happiness?”

“I don’t know,” he dragged his thumb across her lips. “But I think we’re both done running.”

She brought her hands to his chest and began to arduously undo the buttons of his shirt. He stiffened under her touch. It was so strange how little she had actually touched him in all of their time together. How she longed now to feel every inch of him, to record the topography of his skin with her hands. Sliding the the shirt from his shoulders, she exposed his bare chest and the network of purple lines on his flesh. Without a second thought she stood on tiptoe to bring her lips to them, lavishing the faded marks with affectionate kisses.

“You’re so kind, Dana,” he spoke timidly, as if the spell they were under would break and he would lose her forever. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

“No, you’re right.” She pulled away from him and reached for the hem of her t-shirt, dragging it over her head and tossing it to the floor. “You deserve so much _more_. But all I can offer you is myself.” She grasped next for his belt, roughly unbuckling it and starting in on the fly of his trousers.

“I’m wearing too much clothing aren’t I?” he smirked, lifting the maudlin atmosphere that had settled around them.

“Definitely.” As she slid his pants down his legs she allowed her hand to graze across his erection through the thin cloth of his boxer shorts, satisfied as he hissed through his teeth. “You’ve seen me from every angle the past few weeks and I’ve yet to see you clearly from a single _one._ ”

“There’s still _some_ angles I think I haven’t seen yet,” he growled, pushing her backward onto the bed. He kissed her again, harder and more insistent this time and she reveled in the feel of his bare chest against hers. It’s always been one of her favorite things about sex, the feeling of warm skin against skin. The network of scars that marred his flesh - from the nanotechnology, from the war, from the various bullet wounds, scrapes, and cuts - made her feel so much less self-conscious of her own. Their skin told a story.

She was consistently taken aback by how he dwarfed her with his body. It was an exciting feeling - even when he was being as loving as he was now she still felt at his mercy. Shifting his weight onto his side, he slid his hand into her shorts and circled against her now-wet cunt before roughly plunging two fingers inside of her. She moaned against his mouth at the sudden yet welcome intrusion and her fingers reached for the waistband of his boxers, tugging at them futilely.

“What is it you want?” he whispered.

“I want _you_ ,” she gasped as he worked a third finger inside of her. After everything, all that he had done for her both in his bed and in their lives, she wanted so desperately to return the favor. To begin making reparations.

Drawing away from her, he dragged her shorts away with him. She followed his momentum, sitting up and allowing her legs to dangle from the edge of the bed as he stood between them. Her hand reached for his and brought it to her lips. Walter’s knees buckled slightly as she drew his fingers into her mouth, tasting herself on them, caressing them with her tongue. She released them from her lips with a soft _pop_ and he truly looked like he might die. _Good. That’s a start._

His hands brought her face crashing into his and he kissed her like his life depended on it. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she did her best to match his intensity, but it wasn’t enough. None of this was enough.

She pulled her face back abruptly and he stared at her with profound concern.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Walter. I _love you._ ”

"And," she brought her lips to his ear, ready to deliver the fatal blow, sliding her hands to the waistband of his boxers and tugging them down. “Right now I _really_ want you to fuck me.”

Taking him in her palm, she guided him into her, pulling him closer with her thighs. She nearly wept with relief as he came to rest fully-sheathed inside of her.

“Do you want me to make love to you, Dana?” He nipped at that soft skin at the base of her neck, leading into her shoulder, knowing just how weak that left her. “Or do you want me to _fuck_ you?”

“I meant what I said,” she playfully snapped back at him, letting her body flop backwards onto the bed. He grinned like a wolf, gripping her firmly by the hips and splaying her open, yanking her towards him. Their rhythm started easy and slow and she reveled in the feel of every inch of him. Without increasing his speed, his strokes grew deeper and deeper still, each one landing more solidly than the last. She felt her hips tilting upward to accommodate the depth. The new angle made her whole body ache wonderfully.

But it still wasn’t enough. He was still too distant, too controlled, still far too concerned about how this was going for her. She wanted this to be just as much for him.

“Wait. I want - “ _god_ it was hard to talk with the way he was pounding her now. Her body slapped obscenely against his. “Not like this."

He slowed his rhythm immediately. “Is this not okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“No! God no.” She circled her hips against him to prove her point. She hated saying this out loud and the desire itself surprised her, but apparently she was just going to have to be direct. She swallowed hard before blurting it out. “It's just. I - I want to ride you.”

His expression softened from mad lust to genuine affection as he bent down over her, bringing his lips to hers. She practically _whined_ at the sudden loss of contact as they maneuvered onto the bed none too gracefully. As he came to rest leaning against the headboard, it wasn't only her heart that ached for him. This wasn’t something she usually found herself wanting to do, but he seemed to bring these things out of her. His gaze burned as she angled herself over him, slowly lowering onto his cock and bracing her hands against his shoulders, slightly digging her nails into his skin. She shifted her hips experimentally and watched his features contort in pleasure.

“Fuck. Dana,” he whispered, placing a hand on her hip and letting the other trail up to her throat. She moved again, starting to build a rhythm, and the hand on her throat tightened slightly.

“I love you,” she moaned. It became a litany, some sort of prayer, uttering it with every roll of her hips. She knew it sounded a little ridiculous, but she didn’t know how else to make him understand. “I love you, Walter.”

He was starting to choke her in earnest now, and the sensation of his large and distinctly masculine hand gripping her throat was incredible, the way his thumb pressed into her jaw, in counterpoint to the feel of him inside her. She was a doctor, she understood the heightened endorphins and the way that oxygen deprivation worked. But there was an aesthetic element here too. Her little repetitions, the affirmations of love, were slightly strained now.

She didn’t dare turn away from him in modesty, allowing herself to imagine what she must look like right now to him. To have this woman that he loves grinding herself on him, muscles taught with the effort, her lips parted in pleasure, her face flushing from the lack of air and exertion combined. The way that she continuously insisted her affection and moaned her delight as his hand closed around her throat. She wanted so badly to undo him. To do for him what he did for her.

“Please Walter. I want you to come,” she pleaded and he almost snarled in response. “I want you to let go. You can let go with me. It’s okay.”

Letting go of her throat, he grabbed both of her hips forcefully and began to drive himself upward into her. It was a brutal pace and she had a hard time maintaining it.

“I want you to come for me, Walter,” she hissed through her teeth. “I want you to lose yourself.”

His strokes grew erratic and she knew his grip would leave bruises. Leaning forward, she braced herself against the headboard - the look on his face told her that it wouldn’t be long now. It was the most delicious form of torture, the way they fucked so hard that it hurt. Both of them were crying out now. In the back of her mind she _really_ hoped her neighbors weren’t home. Maybe she could just never make eye contact with them again.

“Look at me,” she begged. “I want to see you.”

His eyes were shut tight with the effort of his pace, but upon her request they snapped open, pools of black locking with her blues. Instantly, with her name on his lips, he stuttered into her once, twice, three times. Then stillness.

He was panting raggedly. They both were.

“Holy _shit,_ ” she breathed, collapsing on top of him. They were soaked - she couldn’t tell where her sweat ended and his began and frankly she was so sated that she didn’t much care. Every muscle in her body was protesting loudly. Her thighs trembled as he lightly caressed them. “That was … wow.”

“You’re incredible,” he murmured against her hair, her face curled into his chest and under his chin. She smiled against his skin and hoped that he felt it.

“You’re not so bad yourself, mister.” Shifting her hips slightly she realized that he was still inside of her. And as much as she wanted to lay in this boneless sweaty heap forever, it might be for the best if she were to detach herself and take a shower. “I should probably get cleaned up.”

His eyes followed her to the bathroom - she would be lying if she said she didn’t savor the attention.

“Mind if I join you?” he called from the bed as she climbed into the shower. “I could use a wash myself.”

“I _guess_. You have to stand in back though, can’t have you blocking all the water.” The hot spray felt so good on her tired limbs that she almost didn’t notice him get in behind her, jumping slightly as he slipped his heavy arms around her waist. “I’m so exhausted.”

“Me too.” Reaching over her shoulder, he grabbed the loofah hanging from her shower caddy and started to lather it with her almond-scented soap. “Didn’t get nearly enough sleep last night.”

“Why is that?” Her head lolled back into his chest as he tenderly scrubbed at her arms.

“Nightmare. Some dumb recurring thing I haven’t had in years. Used to get it all the time.” He spoke nonchalantly, as if this was totally normal and not starting to freak her the _hell out_. “When you were sick. It was this weird Orphean myth thing, would have it every night. I kept trying to walk you out of the building without looking back at you, and I’d fuck it up every time. Just had to watch you disintegrate in front of me.”

“You’re kidding.” She wheeled around to face him, pushing the water from her face with her hands. He looked down at her in utter confusion.

“No, why would I joke about that?”

“Listen - this is going to sound absurd but - I mean, stranger things _have_ happened to both of us.” This was incredible, but if anyone would believe her on this it _would_ be him. “I had the exact same dream this morning. I was _following_ you.”

“Dana." His hands trembled as he brought them to her face, searching her eyes for any sign of falsehood. "You’re serious?”  
  
“Absolutely,” she breathed. She couldn’t quite articulate then just what it meant, and it would never happen again in the subsequent blissful years they spent together. But right now, she was wholly convinced that this was a sign of something much greater than themselves.

She kissed him, for the first time her life certain in the knowledge that this was the right choice.

And he kissed her back all the same.  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
